Archive of Our Own ^beta

Charles Leclerc had known his obligations for as long as he could remember.

As the firstborn of the King, his life had been mapped out long before he ever drew his first breath. While other children were chasing sunlight across the palace gardens, Charles was in study rooms with high, arched windows, learning the delicate art of being a future king. He had learned about politics and diplomacy before he had learned to write neatly; about trade routes and treaties before he had learned to ride a horse.

And somewhere between his lessons on history and the cautionary tales of kings long dead, he had learned the most important truth of all: that his life was never truly his own.

Being king, he realized, would never just be about wearing a crown or giving commands. It was about sacrifice. It was about placing his people’s safety above his own happiness. It meant smiling when his heart ached, bowing to duty even when his dreams begged him to run.

Sometimes, it meant having no control over his own destiny at all—and learning to accept that. Because a king’s choices, he had been taught, should never be about himself.

Charles often thought of it as a cruel contradiction. To be born with so much power over others, and yet so little over his own life.

Those thoughts haunted him now, as he sat in his father’s study, listening quietly while the King spoke of alliances and duty. His father’s voice was calm, almost casual, as he said that he had been speaking with the Queen of the northern kingdom, that she wished to strengthen ties between their nations, and that her nephew would make a perfect match for Charles. The arrangements were already in motion.

Charles did not protest. He had always known this day would come.

He had always known that he would never marry for love.

For seven generations, the Leclercs had never married for anything but the crown. It was not a story of romance, but of duty—and Charles had long ago accepted that he would not be the one to break tradition.

He was grateful, at least, for his father’s rare form of leniency. The King had not insisted on a bride. He had acknowledged Charles’s heart and found him a groom instead, a man whose hand in marriage would secure peace as effectively as any treaty.

Love, Charles reminded himself, was a luxury he had never been promised. His brother would one day take his own arranged marriage and provide heirs to the crown. That would be enough for the kingdom.

All that was left for Charles was to smile, bow his head, and surrender the last piece of his freedom.

Truly, he was grateful for at least this much: that he wouldn’t spend the rest of his life chained to someone he could never even hope to like. With a man, maybe—just maybe—there was a chance that affection could grow. That one day, love might not be completely out of reach.

And he wasn’t angry about the arrangement. He had known it would come, as inevitable as the tides. In his life, there were no ifs, only whens. He could not be crowned without a spouse—law and tradition demanded it—and so marriage was not just expected of him; it was his destiny.

But gratitude was not the same as joy.

Even if he had prepared for this all his life, Charles hadn’t expected the reality to feel so hollow. He had imagined… something. A flutter of nerves, perhaps, or at least a solemn gravity befitting the day he signed away the last of his freedom. He hadn’t expected this strange emptiness, as if marriage was just another item on the long list of chores he must complete before ascending to the throne. Study trade routes. Attend council. Smile for portraits. Get married. Become King.

All of it as impersonal as signing his name on parchment.

Lately, the weight of that life pressed heavier than usual. Every duty, every ceremony, every polite smile felt either crushingly boring or quietly suffocating. And sometimes—though he would never admit it aloud—he found his mind wandering to impossible places.

To the thought of leaving.

Of running, far and fast, shedding the Leclerc name like an ill‑fitting coat and never looking back.

He would never do it. He couldn’t. He had trained his entire life for this role, built every part of himself into a future king. He couldn’t abandon his people, who deserved a steady hand and a strong ruler, for the sake of a selfish daydream. He couldn’t bear the thought of disappointing his father, who had carried the crown’s weight for decades and expected Charles to do the same.

No one knew about those fleeting thoughts. He had never spoken them, not even to Arthur. But sometimes he wondered if his brother sensed it anyway. Arthur, with his bright smile and his easy kindness, had grown up under the same gilded cage. He must have felt it too—the shadow of the crown, always looming.

And yet, even if Arthur did understand, Charles could never confide in him.

Arthur would tell him to go. To be free.

And Charles knew, with an ache in his chest, that he would be too weak to resist. He would leave. He would run. He would condemn Arthur to the throne.

And that, Charles could never allow.

It wasn’t because Arthur couldn’t bear the crown; he could, and he would do it well. Arthur would make a brilliant king—beloved, perhaps even legendary. But Charles refused to let him. He refused to let the crown steal Arthur’s light the way it had stolen his own. He wanted his brother to keep his laughter, his warmth, his hope. He wanted Arthur to live a life that was, in some small way, still his own.

So whenever the treacherous thought of escape whispered in his ear, Charles pictured his brother in his place: signing treaties with strangers, smiling at a wedding table beside someone he didn’t love, lying awake at night with the weight of a kingdom pressing on his chest. He imagined Arthur’s bright hair silvering with worry before his time, his hands trembling over tax ledgers and harvest reports, ulcers blooming in his stomach from the constant strain of ruling a nation that could never be pleased.

And just like that, the fantasies of running would burn to ash.

Charles would pull the mask of the perfect prince back into place. He would smile for the court. He would bow to his father’s will. He would swallow his yearning for freedom whole.

Arthur deserved better.

“When should we have the ceremony?” Charles interrupted, his voice polite but firm. He rarely dared to cut his father off, but his breakfast had been ambushed by the sudden announcement of his own engagement—an engagement that had not, at any point, been discussed with him. He decided this qualified as an exception.

“Well,” his father cleared his throat, visibly taken aback by the breach in protocol. A small, childish part of Charles felt victorious. “You two will officially announce the engagement at the Independence Gala in a few weeks.”

Of course. Charles forced his face into neutrality, though inside he wanted to sigh. He used to love the gala when he was younger. It had meant fireworks and music and seeing the city lit up in celebration of their kingdom’s freedom. But ever since he’d been named Crown Prince, the galas had turned into endless hours of shaking hands with foreign dignitaries, pretending to be delighted at small talk, and smiling through the subtle displays of wealth and power. It was less a holiday and more a performance.

And naturally, his father would use the gala to announce the engagement. What better way to display their nation’s growing influence than by parading Charles and his new fiancé in front of the world?

“After that,” his father continued, “Queen Johanna and I agreed that we should give you two six months to… get accustomed to each other before holding the ceremony. So the wedding will be in early July, perhaps mid-July at the latest.”

Get accustomed .

Charles pressed his lips together to stop a laugh from slipping out. It wasn’t mirthful—just dry. He had always dreamed, as a boy, of meeting the person he would marry and learning to love them. He had imagined secret moments, soft laughter, a quiet intimacy that would be his alone. Get accustomed sounded about as romantic as breaking in a new pair of shoes.

He didn’t say any of that, of course. He simply nodded, stabbed his fork into his eggs, and took a measured bite.

“He is the Queen’s nephew, then?” he asked after he swallowed, his tone courteous but detached. “Is he a prince as well?” He already knew the answer didn’t matter, but he made the effort for the sake of politeness. His father seemed so eager to discuss the match, and Charles saw no point in antagonizing him further.

“Yes, he is the Queen’s nephew,” his father said with a small chuckle, as though the question were charming. His father had developed that habit in recent years—laughing at things Charles didn’t find remotely funny, as if lightening his tone would soften the weight of the crown that loomed ever closer. It had the opposite effect.

“His father is a prince, but he himself is a duke,” his father went on. “I think you will like him. He’s a very pleasant young man. I met him a few times on my travels to the North, and he was always cordial. He will make a formidable husband and prince consort.”

Pleasant and cordial . Charles bit back a sigh. Wow, Father, no need to oversell him—I’m already overwhelmed with excitement.

“I look forward to meeting him, then,” Charles said with a small, tight smile. He set his fork down and, in his mind, declared the conversation finished. Dwelling on it would change nothing. The engagement was set; the man’s name and title were just extra garnish on a plate he was already expected to swallow whole.

“In the meantime,” he continued smoothly, “should we discuss the situation in the East?”

It was partly to change the subject and partly because the East did weigh heavily on him. There was a drought there, one that had the potential to grow catastrophic if they didn’t prepare properly. Tens of thousands of his people were at risk. That mattered more to him than the color of his fiancé’s hair or the precise level of his cordiality.

Let his father have his alliances and celebrations. Charles had a country to protect.

***
The next time he is reminded about his impending engagement is three weeks before it happens. Of course, he knew in the back of his mind that it would happen – not that his father, Lewis, or any of the advisers would ever let him actually forget it, with the gala planning, lessons about the Northern culture, the preparations for the Duke’s party arrival – but the bigger part of him just didn’t care enough to keep this in the forefront of his brain all the time.

He is sitting in his study, analyzing a fish trade accord with a small country close to theirs, when he hears a shy knock on his door. He sighs, and allows the person to come in but doesn’t take his eyes off the proposal. He knows it’s not his father or Lewis since they usually only knock as a formality before barging in uninvited, so whoever it is it’s probably not that important.

“Your Highness," A very familiar voice calls him. Charles’s head snaps up because he is certain that it can’t be. “Long time no see." 

But there he is. Arthur Leclerc, his younger brother. It had been six months since Charles last saw him, at his own birthday gala last year, he looked taller and his shoulders looked broader since then. 

“Artie!” Charles got up. He crossed the room in quick strides and engulfed his younger brother in a hug. Arthur was taller than him since a few years back, but this was getting ridiculous now. He was almost a full head taller than him right now. “When did you get back?” He took a step back to take a proper look at him. His skin was tanner, with some freckles sprinkled on his nose and cheeks, his brown hair a shade or two lighter. The latin sun did wonders for him.

“This morning." He flashed him a big smile. “You would have seen me at breakfast if you weren’t so busy working." Arthur was never big on Charles’s workaholic tendencies, but that was what worked for him.

“I thought you were supposed to stay in Brazil for one more week." At least that was what he was told by Lewis. And Lewis was never wrong. That man could schedule Charles' breathing if needed.

“I turned in my final paper earlier, so I decided to come home a little sooner." He shrugged.

“I’m glad you did." He really was. Arthur was probably his favorite person in the whole universe, so having him on the other side of the world for most of the year was hard for him. Still, he was happy for him. Arthur was living his dream by studying abroad, so Charles would never complain about it to him. “C’mon, let’s sit. Tell me everything, how’s school? Are you enjoying your classes? Are people nice to you?”

Arthur giggled and followed him to the couches that Charles kept there for the nights he couldn’t bother to go back to his room for sleeping.

“School is great, at first it was quite hard to get used to the rhythm of things there but once I did it got to be so much fun, the classes are everything I imagined. The professors are very demanding but they are cool too. Everyone is really nice, really, very warm. I didn’t expect to enjoy it this much." They both knew this was a lie. Arthur had the dream of studying literature in Brazil ever since he read Dom Casmurro as a kid and fell head over heels in love with it. They knew from the moment that he was accepted that this would be an amazing experience for him. “The language barrier is still a little hard since it’s very different from what our tutors taught us, but my roommate, Lucas, and his friends are helping me out." That warmed Charles’s heart. Being in the palace meant it was hard for both him and Arthur to make friends. Charles was always a little bit more outgoing than Arthur, so he still managed to make friends with a few noble and servant’s children alike, but his brother was a way-shyer and introverted creature. “Oh, also there the drinking age is 18, so I can go to bars. Let me tell you, Charlie, beer is gross, but the food is delicious. You need to try this dish, it’s called Coxinha." Charles loved his cute accent. His pronunciation was definitely better than before, but he could tell he was still having trouble rolling his tongue correctly. “it’s kinda simple but it’s so good and…”

He kept going on and on about his favorite dishes in São Paulo, the places he got to visit with his friends, the people he got to meet, the extracurricular classes he got to take, and the stories of the friends he made. Charles was giggling, imagining Arthur's adventures in a different country. He tried not to feel jealous of him.

“Oh, but enough of me, Charlie, tell me about you. How have you been?” Arthur seemed actually interested in listening about Charles’s life in the last six months, but nothing really major had happened. Arthur had lived between these walls for the last 18 years, so he knew everything that usually happened there. Reunions, conversations, reading proposals, speaking to diplomats,  rinse and repeat. Nothing really changed.

“Same as I’ve always been," he shrugged. “Now, c’mon keep going, did Lua get back together with João? Because I really think she shouldn’t…”

“What do you mean ‘same’? You didn’t think to mention your engagement to me, Charles?” Arthur seemed upset about this as if Charles was purposely holding information from him. “And don’t worry about Lua, she won’t go back to him."

“Oh, that." Charles sighed. Yes, he never truly forgot about it but somehow it kept slipping his mind that he was supposed to be married to someone in a few months now, mostly because he couldn’t care less about it. 

“Yes, that!” Arthur, on the other hand, seemed excited about it. It made sense, Charles guessed, since Arthur was always a bit more romantic than he could ever be, with his head always buried in a new book. “Don’t you think this is big news?”

“I suppose it is." He shrugged. He didn’t really know if it was news to anyone yet. He knew his father, the council and Lewis knew. He was also aware that a few of the staff of the palace had heard whispers of it here and there. Maybe it was big news that he was getting married soon. “Sorry I didn’t mention it before, it slipped my mind."

“It slipped your mind? You don’t seem excited about it." Charles sighed and agreed. He really wasn’t. Arthur remembered when he and Charles were kids and they would talk about finding love one day. But things have changed since then. Charles was consecrated Crown Prince and had reality hit him like a ton of bricks. He no longer had the hope of ever having that. True love, excitement. He would have to settle for whoever his father chose. “Do you even like him?” 

“I haven’t met him yet," He shrugged. “We’ll be introduced to each other during the Independence gala, you know how much father enjoys a dramatic moment." He nodded and they both rolled their eyes. “I know he is a Duke from the North and that father met him a few times, though. He says he is ‘a pleasant young man’." Arthur grimaced at this. Pleasant wasn’t anything to rave about for a royal, since being pleasant was part of the job description. “Lewis says he is very kind and will make a good husband."

“Well, Lewis usually reads people very well." Arthur tried, but they both knew this didn’t mean much. They both remembered what happened with Lord Rosberg, a few years back. “What else do you know?” Charles just shook his head. “C’mon, Charlie, aren’t you the least bit curious about him? What does he look like?”

“Does it matter?” Charles sighs. “Knowing who he is or what he looks like won’t change anything. And I honestly don’t care. All I want from this marriage is a good prince consort and someone who won’t turn out to hate me."

The look on Arthur's face was gloomy but understanding. Charles almost wanted to smile at him, maybe make a joke so the atmosphere would be less heavy. He didn’t.

“Did you speak to her?” Arthur asked, his voice suddenly small and hushed, like all voices usually were when speaking about her. There was no one around to listen, but still, they wanted to keep the secret.

“Not since my birthday," Arthur sighed, clearly disappointed, and held Charles’s hand, squeezing it lightly. “You?”

“Yes,” He lowered his head as if he was ashamed about it. “This morning, when I arrived. We had tea. She was the one who told me about your engagement. She seemed bitter that you didn’t tell her and that she had to learn about it from Lewis."

“Well, that’s unfair," Now Charles was the one who was feeling bitter. There was nothing he wanted more than to be able to sit down with her and have a conversation about him… Or anything, really. “I tried to speak to her after I found out about it, but I’m still not allowed in her quarters. She had the guards escort me out again."

“She will come around," Arthur repeated what he told Charles since the day he turned eleven. “We just need to give her some time."

Wasn’t eleven years enough time? In six months he would turn twenty-three and that would mean that he spent more time of his life strained from his mother than he did being someone she loved.

“I know," He repeated too, because he couldn’t allow himself to ruin Arthur's hopes in any way. He knew that time wouldn’t change anything. But Arthur didn’t need to know that. “So, how can you be so sure that Lua won’t get back together with João?”

Arthur seemed like he wanted to protest the change of subject, but something in Charles’s eyes must have stopped him.

“I’m sure because Lua doesn’t date cheaters, she said…” 

Charles listened to Arthur speak for the rest of the afternoon, getting lost in the stories of his friends and their complicated relationships. 

His work, future fiance, and mother forgotten for now.

*** 

The weeks before the gala passed too quickly for Charles’s liking. 

Since Arthur arrived at the palace, he had no chance to forget his impending engagement ever again. He mentioned it every chance he could,  planning their first dance with Lewis, asking Sebastian about Northern traditions so they could incorporate them into the gala, and going as far as asking their father fun facts about Charles’s future fiance.

Charles would withdraw every time the words ‘Independence’ ‘gala’ ‘North’ or ‘Duke’ were uttered. At first, he would do it because he wanted to keep his stance of ‘it doesn’t matter if I know him or not, so I don’t care to’. Then, he did it because he could see how annoyed Arthur got every time he did it. He loved his brother very much, but Arthur was still his younger brother, and annoying him was basically his most important duty – second only to the Crown, of course.

On the day before the gala, though, there was no escaping from Arthur. 

His younger brother decided he wanted to ride their horses together because it had been a while since they last did it. So Charles cleaned his schedule as much as he could – a few hours late in the afternoon – and went horse riding with his brother.

Horse riding was one of their favorite activities when they were children. They were even allowed to ride in the forest that encircled the east side of the palace, as long as they took a few guards with them. They liked to play a game of running away from the guards. Whoever got to spend the longest without being caught would win the other’s dessert that night. 

They had to stop playing that game once Charles was officially consecrated as the crown prince, a few years back. Their father never liked their little game, he thought it was childish and dangerous, but after that he had explicitly forbidden it. And not even the princes were allowed to go against an explicit order from the King.

So follow the rules they did… Most of the time. It wasn’t as often as they used to play before, but sometimes they would still scheme and run away from the guards – whom would always keep this little indiscretion from the King if they want to keep their jobs – but they only did it when they wanted some time alone, just the two of them in their secret spot. 

Apparently, this afternoon was going to be one of those days.

It was late in the afternoon when the both of them were free from their appointments and found themselves riding in their favorite horses, three guards following them with some distance, close enough to keep an eye on them but not too close so they wouldn’t listen to their private conversation. Not that their conversation was anything that needed privacy. Charles wasn’t speaking much, content just listening to Arthur tell him a tale about this group project he had where they had to write a play and act, all in portuguese and he didn’t miss any of his lines.

Usually, Charles would be happily listening to his brother’s antics in Brazil, but this afternoon his mind was elsewhere since breakfast this morning.

His mother had been present at their table for the first time in almost six months. It wasn’t of her own volition, she had been summoned by the King so they could discuss her behavior for the gala tomorrow night. Her being present was clearly uncomfortable for everyone at the table, but no one commented on it. The only words being exchanged were his father’s strict rules for the next evening.

Charles wasn’t paying attention to his father’s words about poise and looking like a united front, instead he was watching his mother with the corner of his eye.

She looked a little thinner since the last time he saw her, her hair a little longer, a little grayer than before. Her skin was just as glowy and tan as he remembered – even if she didn’t go out as much as before – but now it had a few more lines than he remembered. It hit him with a sad pang that his mother was aging and he wasn’t there to see it. She might die one day – no, she will die one day – and Charles might not even be close enough to her to feel sad about it.

Since morning he couldn’t stop thinking. 

He told himself for weeks that he couldn’t care less about his engagement – and, in part, it was absolutely true. Nothing would change, no matter how much he worried and got anxious about it. But now, after seeing the strain on his mother’s eyes when looking at his father, after watching the way she couldn’t even bother looking in her own son’s direction, to exchange a single word with him, Charles couldn’t help but think a little bit. Not about the Duke, at least not the way his brother and Lewis insisted on him to care about, but how his future will look like. 

Would he be apathetic towards his own husband one day? Would he be apathetic towards Charles in the future? Would he even care if they did? He wasn’t sure. 

He wasn’t sure when he became like that. When he stopped dreaming about someday finding true love and just resigned to hopefully not despising his spouse one day. 

There were many things he wasn’t sure about.

The only thing he was sure for now was that he wouldn't allow himself to live like his parents.

Arthur must have noticed Charles’s absent mindedness, because he gave Charles a curious glance after he said something and got no reaction from Charles.

“Charlie,” He asked. “Are you okay?” 

He didn’t know how to answer this properly. 

“Of course, Artie." He smiled and hoped it wasn’t too strained. “Keep going, I’m listening."

Arthur analyzed him with a small frown for a good minute before he shook his head and his frown disappeared. He resumed his tale for a few minutes, before he suddenly stopped.

“Charlie,” He called again, but didn’t say anything else, he just nodded his head toward the guards who were following them closely and did a complicated move with his eyebrows in a way that signaled everything that Charles needed to know. 

He looked around to make sure none of the guards was paying particular attention to them– of the three, two were having a hushed conversation that seemed very funny by the way they were snickering, and the other one had his eyes glazed, focusing on his horse’s mane and looking bored out of his mind. Charles thought that he maybe could use some adrenaline rush. He looked back to his brother, his eyes matching his mischievousness and lifted three fingers and slowly put them down one by one. 

“Now!” He whispered to his brother once the last finger was down and they both shot forward in their horses. By the time the guards even realize what is happening, it's 10 seconds too late and both Charles and Arthur are a little too far ahead to be caught.

They didn’t even need to talk about a location, the both of them already knew where to go. He was sure that, eventually, the guards would know too. Everytime they would run away together, it would always be to this place.

Usually, it doesn’t take long for either of them to reach it, but they had to miss their guards before they could go. There was no point in running if they were just going to be caught right away.

By the time they finally reached their special spot, the sky was already starting to get orange.

It had been a while since either of them had been there, but nothing had changed. The pond that they loved so much as children still continued the same, with its dark green surface – filled with lily pads – as tranquil as ever, as gorgeous as ever. The grass around it was well taken care of, recently trimmed, even if it was in the middle of the forest. He made a mental reminder to ask Lewis if he was the one responsible for this and thank him if he was. 

Both of them dismounted and guided their horses to drink some water. They let them there – knowing they wouldn’t run away – and walked slowly towards the willow tree that was close by. They adored this tree, ever since they were little and their parents would bring them here to have spontaneous picnics. Both of their names – and their parents too – were carved on its trunk, faded with time.

They both sat under the tree, their backs against the wood and facing the pond, giggling to each other.

The sun began its descent in the sky, casting a warm, golden glow over the pond and the horses. It was breathtaking. Charles turned to face Arthur, to tell him how much he missed this, just to find him already looking at him, a concerned expression looming in his face.

Charles sighed. He should have known that Arthur just wouldn’t let this go.

“Go on,” He urges. “Tell me what is on your mind."

“You should tell me what is on your mind, Charles." Arthur said instead. Charles didn’t say anything, but he didn’t have to. Arthur knew him too well. “Is this because of mom?”

“She looks older." He comments. It's not exactly an answer but it's enough for Arthur.

“She does." Arthur agrees, frowning at his own hands, not understanding where Charles was going with this. He doesn’t say anything for a few minutes, probably waiting for Charles to say something else, to tell him what exactly he has been thinking.

“You think she will forgive me before she dies?” He asks, mostly out of curiosity. Arthur doesn’t say anything. That was enough for Charles. “Is it evil that I might not care if she doesn’t?” He asks, turning to Arthur, to see his face.

He is frowning again, but this time it isn’t because he is confused on where this is going. It’s because he is helpless. He can’t tell Charles that she will, because he, himself, isn’t sure.

“I don’t know. I hope she will." He doesn’t mention the other question. Charles doesn’t probe him, either. He asked, but he didn't want to know the answer.

"I made a decision." He announces and Arthur has his attention back on him. "If one day I see it necessary, I'll grant the Duke a divorce."

"Charles…"

"I just can't live like they do." He explains. "I don't expect to love the Duke nor for him to love me." He could see that Arthur was saddened by this, but it was the truth. “But I can't live my life tied to someone who hates me. So, if one of us ever wishes, as King, I will grant us a divorce."

“What if he doesn’t hate you and you don’t hate him either?” Arthur asks and Charles frowns, not really understanding. So Arthur explains. “What if you two are just… Indifferent to each other?”

“Well,” He considered this. He thinks he could live with indifference. As long as the Duke is a good prince regent, he could live with it. “Then we’ll be indifferent to each other."

"Charles!” Arthur protested. “I can't believe you right now."

“Arthur…” He sighed.

“Don’t ‘Arthur’ me!” He got up and paced in front of him. Charles wants to tell him to stop, but he doesn’t. He knows why he is reacting like this. He is still very much a romantic. He still wants everyone to be too. Maybe once he is King he can help preserve Arthur’s romantic way of thinking. “This arranged marriage… You need to tell dad you want to cancel it."

Charles loved Arthur’s romantic side, but this wasn’t romance, it was pure naivete.

“I think you’ve been away for too long, Arthur." He snickered, his tone a little harsher than he intended, but maybe it was needed. “I don’t get to tell father to do anything. Ever. My opinion on my own life does not matter. You should know this better than anyone else." Arthur winced and Charles decided to stop. He didn’t want Arthur to feel bad, it wasn’t his fault. None of this was. “And I don’t want to cancel it." He adds, his tone a tad softer.

“You don’t?” He seemed genuinely confused about it, but a little more hopeful.

“Of course." He nods. “This would be really beneficial for our kingdom, Artie. The fear of war will be gone the second we say ‘I do’, so many people will be happier if we just…”

“Have you stopped to consider your own happiness, Charles?" Arthur asked, his voice tinged with genuine worry and sadness.

Charles's eyes flickered towards Arthur, a hint of weariness clouding his features. The truth is that he didn’t. It’s been a long time since he dreamed about his own happiness.

"Artie, the kingdom’s happiness is my happiness too." This statement made Arthur mad, but it was the truth. Lately, all that makes him happy is seeing his brother and seeing his subjects living good, fulfilled lives because of him. “I always knew I was going to have an arranged marriage. You knew that too."

Arthur's brows furrowed in disbelief. 

"But you deserve more than just an arrangement. You deserve love, the all encompassing kind that makes your heart soar and your knees weak. You deserve to be loved deeply and truly. We both do." 

Charles wanted to agree with this, but he knew he couldn’t. Love went against his duty and nothing could ever do that.

Charles let out a hollow laugh, empty, sad. He no longer had the luxury to think like that, but that doesn’t mean that he wishes Arthur would ever stop.

"Heart soaring? Arthur, you’ve been reading too much, that's all fairy tales and fantasies. I've seen enough of reality to know that love isn't always meant for people like me. It's a luxury I can't afford."

Arthur's eyes filled with a mix of compassion and frustration. He reached out, gently placing a hand on Charles's shoulder. "Charles, you’re a prince. There’s no such a thing as luxury you can’t afford." Charles wanted to snicker and tell him he was being way too literal, but they both knew it wasn’t how he meant. “Love is a risk we all should take. Settling for anything less than what you truly deserve is selling yourself short. You deserve a lifetime of happiness, not just… Contentment."

Charles's gaze softened, his defenses momentarily crumbling under Arthur's intensity. 

"I appreciate it,  Artie, I really do. But this is something I've accepted long ago, something I no longer care to sacrifice for the sake of my duty."

"But at what cost? What about your own dreams, your own desires? Are they worth sacrificing for the sake of people who don’t even care about you?" Arthur's voice wavered, his words laden with emotion. 

“Arthur, c’mon. You know just as well as I do that I’m not allowed to have dreams and desires anymore." He tries not to sound bitter, but by the sad look in Arthur’s eyes, he can tell he fails, at least a little. “But if I do this, then you don’t have to give anything up. Once I’m King, you can marry for love. I’ll allow it. I’ll allow you to abdicate too, if that’s what you want." Arthur tried to protest, but Charles didn’t let him. “I’ll take all of the burden of a loveless marriage, a loveless life, if it means yours will be overflowing with it. But that can only happen if I am King. And I’ll only be able to become King if I’m married. You know the law."

A heavy silence settled between them, the weight of Charles’s words hanging heavily in the air.  Charles could tell that Arthur was blaming himself from what he just heard, but he wouldn’t take it back. Arthur deserved to have all the happiness that was denied him.

“I just want you to be happy, Charlie." He mutters, just loud enough for him to hear it. “That’s all I ever wanted for you."

He wanted that too, once. But now he has different priorities.

"I love you, Arthur, and I appreciate the way you feel more than you'll ever know." He finally turns to Arthur, his eyes reflecting a mix of gratitude and pain. “But sometimes, life demands a few sacrifices from us. This is mine."

Arthur's shoulders slumped, a sigh escaping his lips. He knew he couldn't change Charles's mind, but he refused to give up on fighting for his brother's happiness.

"Charles, just promise me one thing," Arthur pleaded, his voice soft but resolute. "Promise me that you’ll at least try. That you will dance with the Duke tomorrow, that you will talk to him and try to find something to love on him. Just once, Charles, do something for yourself and not the kingdom."

Charles watched his brother carefully, a glimmer of hope flickering within his dark eyes. 

“Would that make you happy?”

“Yes." He answers right away and Charles smiles.

He thought about it for a moment, then nodded. It wouldn't hurt to try, if it meant Arthur was happy. He knew it wouldn't lead nowhere, though.

“Fine. I will try."

A few minutes later, just as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting a serene tranquility over the pond, there was a rustle close by. The guards finally found both of them. They didn’t seem in a hurry, so Charles must have assumed that Lewis told them to let them be for a few hours.

The kitchens were quiet, for once. Most of the staff had been reassigned to the ballroom by now, busy lighting candles and fussing with floral arrangements no one would remember. The scent of rosemary and baked bread still lingered in the air, a comforting reminder that somewhere in this palace, life was simple.

Charles padded across the stone floor, half-crouched like a thief. His ceremonial shoes pinched, and he wanted nothing more than getting rid of it.

He tugged the heavy pantry door open and spotted what he was looking for: a silver tray piled with canapés, artfully arranged like little edible jewels. He pinched one between his fingers and popped it into his mouth. Goat cheese and fig. His favorite.

He was halfway to stealing a second when someone clears their throat. “Good choice,” said a voice to his left, smooth and sudden.

Charles startled, nearly dropping the pastry.

A young man stood on the far side of the counter, biting into an hors d'oeuvre with no remorse. His sleeves were rolled to the elbows, and a slight smirk curled on his lips like he’d been watching Charles this whole time.

“I was wondering how many you'd steal before you noticed me,” the man said casually.

Charles was about to defend his honor, swear on his life that he wasn't stealing, when the man smiled, big and bright. “I had five already.”

He was handsome, in an unusual way. He had everything to have a classical beauty, blonde, tall, baby blue eyes. But his nose was a tad too big, his lips a tad too thin, his eyes a tad too apart. Still, Charles found the young man alluring. Pretty like a classical sculpture.

“You’ve been here a while then.”

The man hesitated, then shrugged. “I got lost looking for a bathroom. The smell led me here. I couldn’t resist.”

“I was hoping to sneak out at least three.” He admitted, going for another one. That made the mystery man chuckle.

“They don’t usually let nobles near the kitchen,” the man added, studying him curiously.

“I snuck in,” Charles said, defiant.

“Ah.” The man smiled. “A fellow criminal. Cheers to that.” He raised another crab cake.

Charles smiled, following suit with his pastry.

They ate in companionable silence for a moment, leaning against opposite counters. It was the kind of stillness Charles rarely got to enjoy. Usually, even if they joked around with him often, the kitchen staff was weirdly stiff around Charles. Like there was an invisible barrier between them. He knew this barrier wasn't as invisible to them as it was to him, but it was still annoying.

“I haven’t seen you before,” Charles said finally. He eyed the man up and down, his suit looked expensive. Too expensive for kitchen staff. 

“You haven't,” the man agreed, brushing a crumb from his lip. He had a mole right above his upper lip. Quite distracting. “I’m from the North.”

Charles blinked. “Oh.” The mysterious man was from the North. Probably was here with the Duke's entourage. “Do you… Do you know the Duke?”

The stranger’s expression shifted — not quite fond, not quite cautious. Charles couldn't quite decipher it. “You could say I know him quite well.”

“You're close?” The man hesitated for a second before nodding. Charles understood his hesitancy, people often took advantage of people close to royalty.

Still, his curiosity won. “What’s he like?”

“Quiet. Not great at social interactions. But he means well.”

Charles chuckled under his breath. Such a generic answer. The mysterious man could have been describing anyone. He didn't know why he expected a more in depth answer. It's not like he cared either way, it wouldn't make any difference. “So you’re not that close, then.”

“Close enough to know he’s nervous about tonight. He wishes to win the favor of your prince.” The man glanced sideways. “What about you? Do you know the prince?”

Charles hesitated.

“I barely see him around,” he lied smoothly, picking at a corner of the tray. “He’s… Very busy.” That part wasn't a lie, per se.

The man hummed. “I’ve heard that. Seems like a lot of pressure for one person.”

“It is.” The words left Charles before he could stop them.

There was a brief pause, as the mysterious man watched him closely.

“What is your name?” He asked, munching on the last crab cake of the tray.

“I’m–” Charles hesitated for a second. This man didn't knew him. There was no invisible barrier between them. Yet. But the second he revealed himself, the easiness of this would be gone. “Perceval.” He decided. 

His mother used to call him Perceval as a kid – when she still cared. She wanted this to be his name. She thought it was very prince-like. His father wanted Charles – like his grandfather. He was named Charles.

Perceval was pushed aside as his fourth name and an abandoned endearment. She hadn't called him ‘her little Lord Perceval’ in years.

“Percy,” he corrected, because Perceval felt too personal. And too formal. “What about you?”

“Percy,” the man repeated slowly, as if tasting the name on his tongue, like he didn’t quite believe it. “I’m Emilian.”

There was a beat too long between them — not awkward, just… expectant.

Charles looked at the time. He should go. The ball was likely beginning soon. He could already imagine his father's thin smile, Lewis losing his mind over Charles being over schedule, the hush that would fall as he entered. The Duke would be waiting.

He should go, but he couldn't bring himself to move. Not until Emilian spoke again.

“I feel quite stuffed in here, I'd like to get some air. Would you like to join me?”

He should go. He didn't have the time to get some air with this man.

“Now?” Charles managed. “Aren’t you supposed to be somewhere?” If this man was really part of the Duke's entourage then he should be upstairs too, mingling, making the Duke look good. He also didn't have the time to get some air.

Emilian seemed to consider it for a second before shrugging. “I am not the guest of honor. I can afford to be a few minutes latee.” He smirked. “What about you, Percy? ”

He swallowed hard.

He should go. He was indeed the guest of honor at this party. His father must be furious at his lateness.

And yet.

“I'm not.”

“Then I see no reason not to go.” The man shrugged. “I won't force you to follow me, though.” The man finally raised from where he was sitting, fixing his sleeves. “But some company would be nice.”

He really should go. He couldn't afford to be a few minutes late. What kind of first impression would that make on the Duke? Irresponsible. Impolite. Improper.

“Even more so when the company is so easy on the eyes.” The man smirked and turned, ready to leave.

He really should go. But Arthur’s voice came back to him — “Just once, Charles, do something for yourself.”

“You're going in the wrong direction.” Charles said, before he could stop himself. “The gardens are this way, Mr. Emillian.” He pointed to the entrance behind him.

There was a beat of silence. Then Emilian’s smile bloomed, wide and unfiltered.

“In that case, please, lead the way, Mr. Perceval.”

***

The palace gardens were mostly quiet at night, the kind of quiet that Charles adored — not oppressive like the quiet of his office, not lonely like the quiet of his room. Peaceful. He wished he had more time to spend out there.

Charles led Emilian down the gravel path, their steps soft against the stones. The lanterns along the hedges flickered gently in the breeze, casting golden pools of light on rosebushes and winding ivy. The perfume of night-blooming jasmine hung thick in the air, warm and cloying, familiar.

Emilian didn’t speak right away, just looked around with interest — the trimmed trees, the white marble statues standing proud and still, the delicate arch of the wrought-iron trellises stretching overhead.

It was beautiful. Of course it was. It had been curated to be. And, at some point, Charles had stopped noticing. 

“Come,” he said, leading them off the main path and through a narrow hedge opening. If Emilian wanted some air, Charles knew the perfect place to get it.  A small clearing opened ahead — wildflowers lining its edge.

And at the center: two old rope swings, dangling from the sturdy branches of a beech tree.

Their wood seats were worn smooth by time and use, and the ropes were frayed in places, but they still held. Charles had tested them just last summer.

“My father built these when me and my brother were children,” Charles said, nodding toward them. “I used to pretend I could fly when he pushed me around.” Charles smiled. A fond pang of memories hit Charles like a truck.

Emilian smiled. “Do you still?”

Charles shook his head, shrugging. “I grew. I am too big to be pushed around now.”

They each took a swing, the wood creaking softly beneath them. The breeze picked up, sending the scent of earth and flower petals swirling around them.

“Are you originally from here?” Emilian asked, pushing gently against the ground with his feet.

“Yes,” Charles said. “Born and raised.”

Emilian nodded. “And what’s your favorite thing about it?”

Charles looked away.

He thought of the balcony in his chambers. Of the way he watched people through the glass sometimes, squinting at tourists and shopkeepers and children on scooters as if he might know them. 

“I don’t really go out much,” he said instead. “The view’s better from the palace anyway.”

Emilian gave him a sidelong glance, not unkind. “That sounds like a lie.”

Charles smiled, small. “Because it is.”

He didn’t want to talk about it. Not now. Not when there was still time to pretend.

“What about you?” he asked, shifting the focus. “What’s the North like?”

Emilian brightened. “Cold. Wet. Harsh.”

Charles raised a brow.

“I mean that in a good way,” Emilian laughed. “It’s full of fog in the mornings and clear skies at night. The river splits the city down the middle — me and my sister used to race boats in the summer when the water wasn’t freezing.”

“Used to?”

“Mother made us stop, she was terrified we would fall into the water and drown or freeze to death.” He smirked. “To be fair, I did fall. Twice.”

Charles smiled, resting his chin on the rope.

“In the spring,” Emilian continued, “everything smells like wet soil and tulips. There’s a field just outside where I live, rows and rows of them in every color you can think of. You can’t breathe without inhaling pollen.”

“Sounds awful,” Charles murmured, quietly enchanted. “Allergy season must be awful.”

“It is. But it’s also beautiful.” He paused. “There are bicycles everywhere. You have to keep a lot of balance while sneezing.”

Charles laughed, and Emilian grinned, pleased.

“There’s this old bookstore next to a cheese shop,” he went on. “The owner’s a hundred years old and yells at anyone who puts the books back in the wrong place. She once hit me with a wheel of cheese.”

Charles was wide-eyed. “You’re making that up.”

“I swear it on my life,” Emilian said solemnly. “I was traumatized. It’s why I can’t look at gorgonzola the same way.”

Charles laughed again, the sound lighter now.

“But it’s not all tulips and wheels of cheese all of the time,” Emilian added, more softly. “It gets gray. Damp. The kind of wet that clings to your bones. And people don’t always look you in the eye. Everyone’s always on their way somewhere, too busy to stop.”

Charles studied him for a moment, sensing something else beneath the words.

“I think I'd like to get to know it,” he said.

Emilian looked over, surprised. “You do?”

Charles nodded. “It sounds… real.”

Emilian didn’t answer, but his smile softened — smaller now, more sincere.

They sat in silence for a while, the swings gently swaying in place. Somewhere in the distance, the faint hum of music from the ballroom drifted on the breeze, muffled and far away.

“Do you ever wish you were somewhere else?” Emilian asked suddenly.

Charles is quiet for a while.

“Not always,” he said eventually. “But sometimes I wish I could be someone else. Just for a little while, you know?”

Charles looked at Emilian, heart hammering in his chest. He didn't know why he suddenly wished so much that that man would understand what he was feeling. But he did. He desperately wanted someone – him – to understand this longing inside of him. This deep desperation he had to not be His Serene Highness, Charles Marc Hervé Perceval Leclerc, Crown Prince, Marquis de Beaux, for just one fleeting moment.

“I do know,” he answered. He wasn't looking back at Charles, instead, staring at the glittering stars, eyes unfocused — lost in thought. “I don't have a terrible life. I am comfortable. I have a loving mother and sister. I could have a better father, but… I suppose that is a common complaint. My life is good, and yet, when I am alone in my bed at night, I still long for something different.”

“Yes,” Charles caught himself whispering in agreement. “That's exactly it. I am not ungrateful for the life I have. It is a good life and I should have no complaints about it. But I can't help but long for something different. Not more, just different.”

The swing creaked softly beneath Charles as a breeze stirred the garden. He was still thinking about Emilian’s words, about how he never felt so understood before in his life, when the man suddenly stood up.

“What—?”

Before Charles could finish the thought, Emilian stepped behind him, hands slipping around the ropes.

“Hold on tight.” he said, voice low, teasing.

“What are you—”

And then he pushed.

Charles let out an undignified yelp as the swing lurched forward, weightless for a split second before it curved back through the air. The wind rushed against his face, and panic flared up in his chest — but Emilian was already laughing behind him.

“You are wrong,” he called out. “You are still the perfect size to fly.”

He gripped the ropes as the swing soared higher, and his heart kept leaping with each arc — but it wasn’t the same kind of panic anymore. It was exhilarating. The kind that flushed his face, made his chest expand like he could swallow the sky.

For a few moments, it did feel like flying again.

The moon lit up the garden in silver and shadow, and everything — the palace, the ball, the expectations pressing on him like stone — faded away. There was only the wind in his ears and Emilian’s easy laugh behind him, steady hands catching the swing every time it threatened to drift too far.

He didn’t know how long they stayed like that.

But eventually, Emilian slowed the swing, one final gentle pull before he let it sway to a stop. Charles’ feet dragged against the grass, his breath still unsteady from the rush.

And then Emilian said, like it was the simplest thing in the world:

“We should see city.”

Charles blinked, head turning toward him.

“Just like the North has it's not so good sides, we should see it for what it is, the real parts,” Emilian clarified, his voice softer now. “The ugly parts. You know — the dirt and the graffiti. But I also like to see the good parts too: the food stalls that smell like oil and burnt sugar, the pretty sights of the ocean, people living. I want to see all of that.”

Charles stared at him, pulse thrumming. “Now?”

“Why not?”

“I—” Charles hesitated. There was so many reasons why now it was a terrible idea. They had a ball to attend. Emilian might not care if he was late, but Charles has obligations. Besides that, he wasn't allowed to simply walk out of the palace. It would be impossible. “I’ve never— I don't think I can.”

“Why not?”

So many reasons, yet the first one he said out loud was the most daunting one for Charles. “I'm not really allowed to leave the palace alone.”

“You won’t be alone. I’ll be by your side.” Emilian tilted his head, explaining as if it was obvious. As if this was the solution all along.

Charles’ mouth opened, then closed.

He had guards. Schedules. People who always tracked his every step. He wasn’t allowed to disappear, not even for an hour. And even if he tried, someone would notice. His absence would be written down and reported.

His father would be furious.

He glanced back toward the palace, it's pristine brick wall glaring back at him. The faint music still drifted in the air, polite and distant. He should be inside. Lewis is probably looking for him. His father was probably fuming.

“We should go back,” he said, weakly. “The ball—”

But Emilian’s smile had changed — no longer soft, but lit with a sudden glint of mischievousness that made Charles' stomach flip.

“C’mon, live a little, Percy,” he said, his voice low and full of challenge. “Sneak out with me. I dare you.”

Charles’ breath caught. He hated nothing more than pulling away from a challenge.

It was reckless. Foolish. He would get in so much trouble for even thinking about it.

Yet Emilian’s blue eyes were so bright, filled with something wild and free, daring Charles to take his hand.

And just like on the swing — Charles took the leap.

***

Charles didn’t go straight to sneaking out. He wasn't that reckless.

First, he found Arthur — tucked away in a quieter hallway near the antechamber, adjusting the cufflinks on his formal jacket, clearly preparing to step in and find out what was taking Charles so long.

“Artie,” Charles called softly, careful not to draw attention.

“Charlie? What are you doing here?” Arthur frowned. “You're late already. Everyone is—”

“I need a favor.”

Arthur raised a brow. “Should I be worried?”

Charles stepped closer. “I need you to tell everyone that I am sick. That you worry it might be contagious.”

“What?”

“Say I caught a fever or something. That I can't spend a minute without throwing my guts up. That I won’t make it to the ball tonight.”

Arthur stared at him like he’d gone mad. “You want me to lie to Father? And Lewis? What about the Duke? Charlie, what's going on?”

He tried to hold his brother’s gaze steady, though his pulse was racing. He understood the worried look in his brother's eyes. This was so unlike Charles, of course he must think something is amiss. “Please, Artie. Just cover for me. Just for tonight.”

Arthur’s mouth opened, then closed again. “Why?”

Charles hesitated. He couldn't explain it to Arthur because he, himself, didn't fully understand it yet. Why was he doing that? Risking his father's ire? Risking ruining his engagement to the Duke and a treaty that could benefit his kingdom greatly? He didn't know. Still, he owed his brother something, so he said, quietly, “Because I’m doing what you told me to do”

Arthur blinked, confusion plastered all over his face.

“I’m doing something for myself, for once.”

Arthur’s expression softened immediately. For all of his faults, Arthur was fierce in all of what he did. He loved fiercely and was equally loyal. To Charles in specific, his love and loyalty knew no bounds.

He pulled Charles into a hug — tight, warm, quick.

“Fine, then. I'll tell them I think you're highly contagious, so they don't try and check up on you,” Arthur said into his ear. “Don't do anything stupid.”

Charles laughed — breathless with nerves and overwhelming relief. “I won't.”

At least he hoped he wouldn't.

***

He found Emilian leaning against a marble column near the far end of the servant wing, a mischievous smirk already tugging at his lips.

“I thought you'd lost your nerve.” he teased, smiling even wider at Charles' annoyed expression. “Wouldn't blame you if you did. I'm glad you didn't, though.”

“We should go before I do.”

“Lead the way.”

They moved quickly — Charles guiding them through the lesser-used servant corridors, narrow and dimly lit, the stone walls cool beneath his fingertips. Charles wasn't allowed outside the palace alone, not now and not ever, so he spent a lot of his childhood roaming these walls. He knew every nook and cranny, every pathway and secret entrance of this place. Even if he never used it before.

They reached a heavy iron gates tucked away behind the old stables that no one used anymore.

“Wait.” Charles said, breath catching as his hand hovered over the latch.

Emilian turned to him, eyebrow lifted.

Charles didn't know how to explain this to Emilian. He never did something like that before. It felt like too grand of a moment. It would be the first time in his life that he would get this type of freedom. It was too big of a moment to do it in haste, even if they needed to be quick to not be caught.

Luckily, Emilian seemed to understand it though.

“Would you like to do the honors?”

Charles' heart was pounding when he nodded.

He pulled the gate open slowly, both to savour the moment and because they were heavier than he estimated.

He took one step forward.

And as easily as that, they were outside.

He was outside.

No guards. No advisors. No expectations.

Just the two of them beneath the velvet sky, the palace looming behind them like it belonged to someone else’s story.

Charles let out a breathless laugh.

It bubbled out of his chest like it didn’t belong to him. Like it belonged to someone freer, lighter.

“What?” Emilian asked, eyeing him with a fond curiosity.

“I don’t know,” Charles said, just as confused. “I am just… Happy, I suppose.”

Emilian grinned. “Ready?”

Charles met his eyes, something breathless curling in his chest.

“Ready.”

***

They followed the winding streets out from the palace walls, past the marble archways and manicured hedges, the city humming softly around them.

Charles instinctively angled toward the upper district — the one with lantern-lit boulevards and imported stone facades, where the storefronts gleamed even at night. He’d walked those streets before, flanked by guards and ministers, Lewis and Arthur, during his presentation as the Crown Prince parade.

But just as Charles turned onto one of the wide avenues, Emilian caught his arm.

“Not that way.”

Charles blinked. “Why not?”

Emilian tilted his head, like he was genuinely puzzled. “I said I wanted to see Monaco.”

“You did.”

“The real Monaco.” His hand was still light on Charles’s sleeve. “Not the part with gold bricks and marble streets. The ugly parts.”

Charles hesitated. He looked toward the brightly lit street — familiar and safe — then back at the shadowy alley Emilian gestured toward. It curved into the older quarters of the city, the places Charles had only ever seen from a car window, always from a distance. A part of his kingdom he never stepped foot on.

If one day he was going to rule these people, to own these streets, then he should at least get to know them.

He nodded with more confidence than he felt. 

Emilian’s grin returned, easy and delighted, and he tugged him down the cobbled path.

The sounds hit them before anything else — music, laughter, the jangle of tambourines and the quick rhythm of dancing feet. The scent of roasted spices hung heavy in the air, mixed with caramel, salt, and wood smoke. Bright pennants fluttered between buildings, and small fires glowed in iron drums where children tossed in paper and cheered.

They turned a corner and there it was — a full-blown party on the streets. Different from any other that he had ever seen.

It bloomed in the heart of a narrow square, packed shoulder to shoulder with people. There were food stalls crammed between brick walls, small vendors vying for passer by’s attention, jugglers tossing torches, someone playing a violin with frenzied joy. Strings of mismatched lights hung overhead like a tangle of stars.

Charles stopped dead in his tracks.

“Oh,” he breathed.

Emilian’s shoulder brushed his. “Oh, that was unexpected.”

“It’s…” Charles couldn’t even find the words. “It’s so alive.”

He stood frozen for a moment, soaking in the noise, the color, the chaos of it all. No one looked twice at him. No one bowed or curtsied or even cared for his presence. They laughed and danced and yelled, messy and beautiful. A child darted by with a painted face, a woman clapped along to the beat of a street musician, a man leaned out of a window and threw petals down onto the crowd below.

“What are they celebrating?” Emilian asked, looking around – equally as awed.

“It is Independence day.” That was the only explanation that Charles had.

“Oh, that's perfect. Couldn't have a better outcome if we planned it.” Emilian smiled. “We have a couple of these up North, but I haven't been to one in years.”

Charles never been to one, ever. He couldn’t stop looking — at the people, at the lights, at the crumbling paint on the buildings and the fireworks someone had lit far too early. It was so far from the polished world he knew. It was messy, and loud, and so real .

It was lovely.

He turned to Emilian, unable to stop the grin tugging at his mouth.

“So,” Charles said, “what does one do at a party like this?”

Emilian offered his hand with a flourish. “One dances until their feet hurt.”

Charles stared at the outstretched hand.

The music soared—wild strings, fast drums, clapping hands—and around them, the crowd swayed and spun. Laughter echoed from every corner of the square. And Emilian stood there in the middle of it, one brow arched, the faintest glint of challenge in his eyes.

“What?” Charles asked, still breathless from wonder.

“C’mon, Percy.” Emilian’s grin was teasing now, crooked and magnetic. “Don’t tell me you don't know how to dance.”

Charles hesitated. He had never danced in a street. He had danced in ballrooms—choreographed steps, stiff suits, calculated glances. But this? Was different from everything he knew: Joyful. Loud. Unrestrained.

He reached out and took Emilian’s hand.

The pull was immediate—Charles was drawn into the music, into Emilian’s orbit. They didn’t follow steps, not really. They just moved. At first, Charles tried to find a rhythm, tried to match what others were doing, but Emilian only laughed and spun him around.

“Stop thinking so much.”

“I’m not—”

“You are.” Charles tried to protest again, but Emilian pulled him close for a beat, his arm wrapped tightly around Charles’ waist, their faces mere centimeters apart. He could almost taste Emilian’s breath. For a maddening second, he thought he might even close the space separating them. “Don't think about anything. Just feel it.”

And then, Emillian let him go. Pulled Charles away into a twirling motion, their hands never breaking apart. It was a little frustrating, if he was being honest, but the frustration was swallowed quickly by the happiness he felt bubbling up on his chest.

So he did it. He let go. At least for a moment he did his very best to stop thinking so much.

The air rushed past as they spun, the gravel crunching under their feet, the crowd erupting in more cheers as someone nearby lit up a string of small fireworks. The sparks reflected in Emilian’s eyes, making them sparkle gold instead of cobalt.

Charles had never danced like this.

The music was everywhere— the lively strings felt like they were playing inside his head, and the thunderous clapping reverberated inside his chest, and the voices rising in laughter might as well have been his own. Maybe it was his voice laughing. He had never laughed during a waltz. It wasn't proper. It might have gotten him slapped by his dance and his etiquette instructors.

Still, Charles loved it. He loved that it wasn't elegant or rehearsed. That was what made it thrilling. Around them, the crowd moved like a tide, overflowing the cobbled streets, either walking or dancing too. No one paid them no mind.

It was dizzying in the best way possible.

Emilian spun him again, just for the joy of it, laughing when Charles stumbled slightly and gripped his arm to steady himself. Or maybe it was Charles who was laughing? 

“I thought Northerners were supposed to be stoic.” Charles panted, grinning.

“We are,” Emilian said, eyes glinting, a matching grin splitting his face. Charles thought he was pretty from the first moment he saw him, yet, his smile made Emilian gorgeous in a way Charles didn't quite know how to deal with. “I guess you are the one corrupting me.”

“I am a terrible influence, I know.”

“The worst.” Emilian shakes his head, pulling Charles close once again. “My poor, poor reputation.”

They danced a little longer, feet kicking up dust, shoulder to shoulder with strangers, the scent of roasted almonds and sweet wine thick in the air. A man passed by with a tambourine, and Emilian caught the rhythm easily, guiding Charles along.

The music began to fade behind them, swallowed by the narrow side street they’d wandered into. Lanterns strung between old buildings swayed gently in the breeze, casting dappled light across the uneven cobblestones.

They weren’t dancing anymore. Just walking, their shoulders bumping occasionally, their fingers brushing now and then but never quite intertwining.

“I like this,” Emilian said suddenly, softly. “The quiet after the noise. Makes you feel like the world is catching its breath.”

Charles glanced over, surprised by the calm in his voice. “You're full of surprises, aren't you?”

“That so?”

Charles nodded. He never quite knew what to expect next from Emilian. What would he do next? Jump into the ocean? Ask Charles to join him on a bank robbery? Drive Charles away from his country and never look back? Well, probably not that last one, since Charles was kinda hoping for it.

“Alright then. Surprise me back, then. Tell me a secret, Percy. Something no one else in the world knows but you.”

Charles hesitated. For a moment, he considered deflecting with a charming quip. Maybe even a lie, it's not like he would ever know. But Emilian wasn’t smiling now. Not entirely. His expression was curious, intent, like he wanted to know—not out of politeness, but out of a genuine desire to get to know Charles. To genuinely see him. 

That didn't happen often. People didn't care for Charles' thoughts or feelings. He was a prince first and, most of the time, a prince only. It was different – new – to be seen as a human being. An interesting one, at that.

Charles looked down at the cobblestones.

For a moment, Charles thought about making something up. Something clever and inconsequential, just to impress Emilian. To make his interest pay off and don't disappoint him.

But instead, he said, “I used to paint birds.” because even if his human self was boring, it was still a side of him that almost never got to see the sun. He owed it to himself to show it.

Emilian tilted his head, intrigued. Charles himself was also intrigued that Emilian still seemed interested.

“With watercolors,” Charles added, because Emilian seemed to want him to keep talking. “I kept a sketchbook hidden under my mattress. I wasn’t very good at it, but I liked doing it. Imagined them flying away. Taking me with them.”

Something flickered in Emilian’s expression — surprise, maybe. His eyes were incredibly soft under the street lights.

Charles shrugged, a little embarrassed. Maybe he should have made something up. “It’s silly, I know.”

“No,” Emilian said, voice gentler but still very firm, leaving no space for discussion. “It’s not.”

There was a beat, quiet and fragile between them. Charles supposed he should say something, but he didn't know what. It felt good, though, to be validated like this. Sometimes – not his father or Lewis – people would agree and validate Charles only to win his favor. He used to fall for it all the time, back then. These days, he barely expresses his opinion so it won't happen anymore. But Emilian has no reason at all to want his favor. He doesn't want more gold for his city or the push for a law to be approved. It was disconcerting. 

He was worried that the quiet would stretch between them, that it would stop being comfortable and it would be stifling. So Charles turned the question back. “Your turn. Tell me something no one knows about you.”

Emilian tilted his head, considering. His grin faded slightly —just barely, but it was a big enough shift for Charles to notice— as something flickered in his expression. The noise around them seemed to dim for a heartbeat.

“I—” he began.

His eyes found Charles’s, and there was something new there—honest and startling. Charles was enthralled. He never wanted to know a secret this much in his life.

But then—

A loud crash behind them, and someone barreled into Emilian’s back, knocking him off balance into Charles’s arms. A young man, clearly tipsy and shouting apologies, stumbled away again, clutching a bottle.

Emilian blinked. Then he laughed.

Charles kept waiting for that moment to go back, for that deep honesty to go back to his eyes, but it never did. 

Charles looked at him curiously. He was still close, no longer in Charles' arms. He noticed, once again, the mole above Emilian's upper lip. Taunting. “You were going to say something.”

“I was.” He agreed, staring back at Charles. His eyes were soft once again, but not filled with the truth he was about to spill earlier. Charles knew, deep down, that the moment was broken.

Still, he tried. “And now you’re not?”

“Maybe later.” Emilian’s smile returned, not teasing. Maybe he was telling the truth. Charles had no way of telling.

Charles wanted to press, to tell Emilian how unfair it was that he got to share a secret but never got one in exchange, but the music had surged again, and someone was pulling them into a new line of dancing, arms and shoulders bumping.

Still, even as they moved, Charles couldn’t stop glancing at him, wondering what secret could have made Emilian's eyes go like that.

***

The street was a vibrant blur of colors and scents. Lanterns swayed above them like captured stars, their golden glow casting everything in soft warmth. The air smelled of cinnamon and roasted almonds, fried dough and something smoky. Laughter echoed from every corner. Music swelled from a band tucked into an alleyway.

Charles couldn’t stop staring. Every stall held a small universe — tiny paintings of local landmarks, carved wooden animals, candles shaped like castles, sweets stacked in towers, food that smelled heavenly.

He had never seen this side of his kingdom. He had never seen his kingdom, period. But if he had, he was sure he wouldn't be allowed to see this part.

“Overwhelmed?” Emilian asked, grinning as he bumped their shoulders together.

Charles could only nod, breathless. He was so used to pale walls, whispered conversations and barely there music. This felt like an explosion on all of his senses, in the best way possible.

They wandered until they reached a small stand draped in velvet, handmade jewelry catching the lamplight. Necklaces of glass and stone shimmered beside copper bracelets and twisted silver rings. A little girl with her hair in braids sat behind the table, stringing beads with quiet focus.

Emilian picked up a necklace — a simple silver chain with a green teardrop-shaped stone.

“This one reminds me of you,” he said.

Charles looked up from a gold bracelet he was admiring. The necklace was pretty, delicate. Charles was used to have his beauty complimented in the same way.

“The color.” Emilian held it out, the stone catching the light. “It matches your eyes perfectly. Gorgeous, don't you think?”

Charles stared at him. It felt like the world tipped sideways for a moment. He expected Emilian to wax poetry about his delicate features, not this. But again, Emilian had a nack for surprising Charles in the best way possible.

“How much?” Emilian asked the little girl, already reaching for his coin pouch.

The little girl looked up. “Four francs.”

Charles’s stomach dropped. His eyes snapped to the small wooden coin box beside her, and sure enough, mixed in with the coins was a paper bill — the edge of it worn, but unmistakable.

His own face. Younger, rounder, but clearly him. The official royal portrait from when he was fifteen.

Panic surged through him.

“I— I don’t want it,” Charles said quickly, too sharply. He grabbed Emilian’s wrist and tugged him away from the stand. He couldn't have his cover blown because of a necklace, no matter how pretty. “We should go.”

“What?” Emilian asked, baffled. “But—”

“I don’t want it,” Charles repeated, his voice lower now, eyes flicking around to make sure no one had looked twice at the currency or at them. “Come on.”

Emilian glanced at the necklace once more, then dropped it back onto the velvet lined table. The little girl blinked, confused, but said nothing, just went back to her work.

Still gripping his wrist, Charles led them around the corner, out of sight.

They stopped in a quiet patch between stalls, where colorful scarves fluttered like flags in the breeze. Only then, Charles let go.

Emilian tilted his head. “What was that about?”

Charles shook his head, forcing a smile. Even without looking, he could tell the smile felt tight on his lips. “I just… don’t like green.”

Emilian didn’t seem to believe him, but was kind enough to let it go. “And what do you like?”

“Blue,” Charles says, almost instinctively. “It reminds me of the sea. It feels like home.”

“All right,” he said slowly. “Then we’ll find you something blue next time so you don't run like a fugitive.”

Charles gave a tight laugh, trying to play along. But his heart was still racing.

He had almost blown everything away.

They didn’t speak about the necklace again. Instead, Emilian laced his hands behind his head and walked like nothing had happened, whistling along to the faint music in the distance.

Charles followed, still shaken but grateful for the space. They drifted through the market like two shadows—Emilian pointing out sweets and asking if Charles knew their history or liked their flavor. Charles talked about the history with glee, but made sure to say he didn't like any of them. He couldn't risk Emilian wanting to be a gentleman and taking out his coin pouch once again.

Eventually, the lanterns thinned, the music dimmed, and the crowd faded behind them. Emilian led the way through winding alleys and across a low stone wall, polished shoes crunching through wildflowers and dry grass.

Eventually they came face to face with a wire fence. Charles was ready to turn around, but Emilian didn't seem to be deterred. He started to climb it.

“Are you coming?” He asked when he reached the top of the fence. His blonde hair was blowing in the wind. Even from afar his eyes were sparkling with mischief.

Charles really should say no. Instead, he rolled up his sleeves and started climbing too. It was more exertion than he was used to, but he managed quite fine.

When he finally reached the top, he looked down at Emilian, who was looking up at him expectantly. Arms wide open.

“Jump,” he prompted. “I'll catch you.” he promised.

So, like he was often that night, Charles gulped some air and took a leap of faith.

He wondered if this was normal. Trusting so blindly someone he barely know.

But Emilian didn't lie. He wrapped his arms tightly around Charles and – even though they only stumbled lightly – put his hand on Charles' nape to protect his head. It was something his guards often did for him. But his heart never fluttered when his guards did it. Not like this.

“Good?” Emilian asked, watching Charles intently. Searching his face for something that could be wrong.

“Yeah,” He manages to whisper, pulling himself away slightly to compose himself.

Charles looks around to realize they are in a hill that sloped down toward the marina. The sea, dark in the horizon, reflecting the silver glimmer of the moon. A soft breeze blew in from the shore, carrying the scent of salt into his lungs. Smelled like home. They collapsed in the grass, side by side.

“Is this legal?” Charles asked, still breathless from the climb.

“Almost certainly not,” Emilian replied, tossing his arms out to either side. “But it’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

Charles looked up. The stars blanketed the sky like spilled sugar. Not the neat view from the palace tower, not through glass. For the first time in his life, the sky did look infinite.

“I’ve never seen them quite like this,” he murmured.

Emilian turned his head toward him. “You live in a glass cage, don't you?”

Charles didn’t deny it. There was no point to.

They were quiet for a while. The grass tickled Charles’s arms, and he could feel Emilian’s shoulder brushing his own when the wind shifted. The sea whispered to them, gentle and persistent.

Eventually, Emilian spoke again. “I like it here. Being with you.”

Charles swallowed hard.

He turned his face slightly—and found Emilian already looking at him. His expression was unguarded, touched by starlight. His blue eyes held none of his previous mischief. They were honest once again.

Charles’s breath caught.

Emilian leaned in, just slightly, like he was offering rather than asking. Their faces were close enough now that Charles could feel his breath, could see the pretty mole on his upper lip that kept getting his attentiona all night. 

Charles shuddered as Emilian's fingertips brushed lightly against his cheek. 

He never wanted anything so badly in his life. It was a sensation he had never experienced before, that type of overwhelming longing. And it frightened him, how much he wanted this, because never in his life – before tonight – did he put his own wishes above his duties. But, in that moment, with the moon shining to bright above them, the wind grazing gently their skin, lying beside Emilian, who was looking at him like he held all the secrets of the universe inside his soul, Charles wanted nothing more than to forget he was a prince, that he ever had any type of responsibilities and that he shouldn’t be here, trespassing private property, with basically a stranger.

Right now, looking at Emilian’s baby blue eyes, reflecting the gorgeous brightness of the moonlight, Charles could try to pretend, just for a fleeting moment, that he was an ordinary person, just a peasant on a date with his boyfriend.

But I'm not , he realized as reality crashed down upon him as guilt flooded his gut. He wasn’t a peasant and he could never pretend he was.

“I can't." Charles whispered in a voice laced with regret, his gaze lowered in shame. Emilian's eyes were full of honesty, in this moment it was his turn to be truthful. "I wasn't completely honest with you earlier. I… I am supposed to be engaged to someone else."

A soft hum escaped Emilian's lips, and Charles braced himself for the disappointment, anger, or disdain to follow. Yet, to his surprise, Emilian's hand gently cradled his cheek, lifting his face to meet his gaze once again. His eyes were so blue and so bright, so beautiful… Charles almost felt like they couldn’t be real. How could a pair of eyes – just a set of scleras, irises, and pupils – hold the whole universe inside them?

“Do you love them?” Emilian asked softly, his thumb brushing against Charles’s cheekbone like he didn’t even realize he was doing it.

Charles blinked. “What?”

“Whoever it is,” Emilian murmured, gaze steady, voice gentle. “The person you’re engaged to. Do you love them?”

The question hit harder than it should have. Love? Was that even part of the equation? He knew his duty. He understood expectations, responsibilities, tradition. But love?

No. He didn’t love the Duke.

He knew that much.

But love had never been the point.

Charles opened his mouth—he didn’t even know what for—but the words tangled somewhere between his chest and throat. His heart beat too fast, his hands felt unsteady. He was supposed to be thinking about his future. His country. His family. Not this. Not Emilian. Not the way his skin prickled under Emilian’s touch or the way the space between them felt smaller and smaller.

“I… can’t.” His voice was barely a whisper. “I have… obligations.”

Emilian tilted his head, gaze never wavering. “Tomorrow,” he said, the word curling around Charles like an invitation, like a lifeline. He inched closer, enough that Charles could feel the warmth of him, the breath between their lips. “Think about that tomorrow.”

Charles squeezed his eyes shut for half a second, like it might shut the world out. “And tonight?” His voice cracked around the edges of the question. He hated how desperate it sounded—but he needed to hear it from someone else. From Emilian. Like everything in his life, he needed permission.

Emilian’s smile softened—not teasing, not mocking. Just gentle in a way that disarmed Charles completely. “Tonight, think about what you want.”

The words carved straight through him.

What did he want?

Did anyone ever care? He certainly ignored what he wanted for most of his own life.

Emilian didn’t move any closer. He didn’t close the gap. He just waited—like Charles was free. Like he had a choice.

He didn't get many of these in his life.

“I can’t,” Charles whispered again, but even to his own ears, it sounded like a lie. His hands trembled in the grass. “It would be… selfish.”

A breath of laughter ghosted from Emilian. Not cruel—just knowing. “Don’t you want to be selfish?” His voice was soft, coaxing. “Just this once?”

“I…” Charles hesitated. He’d spent his whole life answering questions the right way, the expected way. He knew the correct answer. He always did.

But this time... he didn’t want the correct answer.

He didn’t want to think.

So he didn’t.

Charles breathed. “Just this once… I think I do.”

Emilian’s smile broke, bright and devastating. “Good.”

And that was all it took. A breath between them. A heartbeat. A choice.

A choice Charles had never been allowed to make before. A secret no one but them, the stars and the sea would ever know.

Just this once.

Just for him.

Emilian didn’t hesitate. He leaned in, slow enough that Charles could stop it, but Charles didn’t. He didn't want to. 

The moment their lips touched, it was like something inside him shattered—and in its place bloomed something exhilarating and terrifyingly new.

Charles barely knew what he was doing. His breath caught; his lips trembled. But none of that seemed to matter, because it was happening—it was real. Emilian was warm and soft against him, his hand still cradling Charles’s jaw like he was something precious. Something wanted.

His heart thundered so loud it drowned everything else out—the waves crashing far below, the wind rustling through the grass, the distant murmur of the festival. All of it faded beneath the simple, stunning realization that this was his first kiss .

And it was with someone he wanted.

Not out of duty. Not because someone told him it was proper, or expected, or required. But because he chose this. Chose Emilian. Chose himself.

Electricity raced through his veins, the kind that made his fingers twitch, his knees weak, his stomach twist into something heavy and weightless all at once. It was clumsy, a little unsure—Charles didn’t know how to tilt his head properly, didn’t know how much pressure was right, whether he was supposed to move or stay still.

But Emilian didn’t seem to care. He hummed softly, tilting his head to guide Charles through it without a word, lips gentle but sure. Patient. Kind.

Charles squeezed his eyes shut. He wanted to remember every single detail—the way Emilian’s fingers threaded into his hair, the way his breath hitched when their noses bumped for half a second before they adjusted, the dizzy warmth flooding through him like sunlight breaking through heavy clouds.

This.

This was everything.

It was freedom and fire and the sweet, reckless taste of rebellion. Of wanting something and actually being able to have it.

His first kiss wasn’t under palace chandeliers or stiff ceremony. It wasn’t with the Duke, whose name Charles didn't care about. It was here. On a forbidden hill beneath the stars, with the sea whispering far below, and someone whose laughter made Charles forget to be afraid.

When they finally pulled apart, just barely—just enough to breathe—Charles felt like he might float straight into the sky. His lips tingled. His chest ached in the best way.

Emilian smiled at him, soft and a little smug, like he knew exactly what this meant. “How does it feel? To be selfish?”

Charles let out a breathless laugh, dazed. “It feels,” he whispered. “great.”

“Good,” Emilian grinned, pulling Charles a little closer. Charles leaned back on his elbows, then slowly let himself sink fully into the grass, letting it cradle him. Emilian followed suit, propped up by one arm, eyes fixed on Charles like he was still the most fascinating thing in the world. “You’ve got grass in your hair,” he teased softly, touching Charles' curls with the softest of the touches. “And the stars in your eyes.”

Charles had to physically stop himself from hiding his blush and face splitting grin. Instead, Charles turned his head, watching the way starlight caught in Emilian’s eyes.  “You're the one to talk. Ocean eyes.”

If he saw Charles now, his father would kill him. He would scream, enraged: “ A prince should never lay on the grass! Look at your suit, it’s ruined !" And he would be right. Any other night, Charles would never lay on the slightly wet grass on his Armani suit.

He was glad that tonight wasn’t just any other night.

They shifted onto their backs, side by side in the cool grass, arms barely touching but close enough to feel the warmth between them. The night wrapped around them like a secret, the sky so clear it felt like the stars were close enough to touch.

“What is your favorite color?” Emilian asked suddenly, grinning like it was a deeply important mystery.

Charles turned his head to look at him. “Didn’t I answer that already?”

“I’m checking to see if it still holds true,” Emilian teased, nudging Charles’s arm with his own.

Charles let out a quiet laugh. “It is. Blue. But… not any blue. This blue.” He pointed downward toward the sea. “When the sun is hitting it just right. What's yours?”

“Green.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s stubborn,” Emilian said, plucking a blade of grass and twirling it between his fingers again. “It survives. Even when it’s cold. Even when it’s dry. Green finds a way.”

Charles bit his lip, heart giving an unexpected throb at that. “That’s… poetic.”

Emilian grinned. “I have my moments.”

Charles smiled at that. “What about… your favorite food?”

“Oh, easy. Strawberries. Specifically when they’re warm from the sun and so ripe they practically fall apart in your mouth.” Emilian smiled. Charles kept that information tucked away in his heart. For what, he wasn't sure. All he knew is that he wanted to know more about Emilian. Everything and anything he could manage.

Charles hummed. “I think… bread. Freshly baked bread, straight from the oven. The kind that’s so warm it burns your fingertips but you can’t wait.”

“A classic for a reason.” Emilian mused.

They fell quiet for a moment, listening to the soft rustle of grass and the distant crash of waves below. Charles didn't want silence, he wanted to get to know Emilian, to catalog his likes and dislikes deep inside his heart.

“What’s your biggest fear?” Charles asked, his voice softer this time, aware that this was a heavy question and that he might have to answer it back.

Emilian was quiet for longer than Charles expected. “To be stuck,” he said finally. “Being… caged. Living a life where I can’t breathe, can’t move, can’t be myself. Nothing scares me more than that.”

Something tugged hard in Charles’s chest at that. He stared up at the stars and felt the ache of how much he understood. Emilian's biggest fear was Charles’ daily life.

“You?” Emilian prompted.

Charles swallowed, voice barely more than a whisper. “Disappointing people. Everyone. Being… Well, not being enough. Or being…  A failure .”

Silence followed, but not the uncomfortable kind. It was understanding. Maybe, just like Charles lived Emilian's biggest fear daily, so did Emilian.

“Seems like we’re both afraid of cages,” Emilian murmured. “Except yours are less literal.”

Charles turned his head, finding Emilian already looking at him. The air between them shifted, warmer, heavier.

Without thinking, Charles leaned in and kissed him again—softer this time, more sure. He still didn’t quite know what he was doing, but Emilian didn’t seem to mind. He met him with that same gentle patience, the kind that made Charles’s heart flutter and his body melt.

When they pulled back, Emilian let out a quiet breath of laughter. “You’re getting better at this.”

Charles felt himself flush. “Am I?”

“Mhm. Very.” Emilian’s smile was lazy, fond.

They let the silence stretch again, until Emilian asked, “Alright. Favorite animal?”

Charles chuckled. “Why does that feel like a harder question than it should be? I could talk about politics and philosophy in a heartbeat. Answer without even sparing it a thought. But this? Impossibly hard to answer.”

“Probably because you don't think about it often,” Emilia shrugged.

“Then why does it matter?” It's not like he didn't want to answer. He knew why a question like this would have mattered to him, but he wanted to know if it was the same for Emilian. If he also longed to know everything about Charles.

“Because it’s the things you never think about that truly matter. That make you who you are.”

Charles tried not to feel smut about this. Reciprocation felt good.

“Fine…” He thought about it for a good second, before settling. “horses, maybe.” He grinned, a little embarrassed. “I always liked how free they look when they run. Plus I used to love racing.”

“Oh, me too. The racing part, not the favorite animal.” Emilian smiled conspiratory. “Mine are lions.”

“Lions?”

“They’re majestic creatures. I aim to be as fierce as one everyday. Have you ever seen one in person?”

Charles shook his head. “Never.”

“I’ll take you someday.” Emilian stretched his arms above his head. “Alright. Harder one now.”

“Oh no.” 

“Tell me about your biggest dream,” Emilian said, his voice soft but certain. “The thing that motivates you to wake up every day. The thing your heart desires the most.”

Charles opened his mouth—instinct ready to spit out ‘becoming King’—but the word caught in his throat. That wasn’t his dream. It was an expectation. A duty. A crown heavy enough to flatten someone’s spine. But it wasn’t a dream.

And it shocked him a little, how quickly the real answer surfaced, despite how long it had been since anyone let him consider it. His fingers fidgeted slightly, tracing invisible lines on the table.

“I… I want to study art.”

Emilian blinked, like he wasn't expecting this answer at all. “Really?”

Charles chuckled awkwardly, brushing a hand through his hair. “Yeah… I guess it sounds strange.”

“Why?” Emilian asked, tilting his head like a curious bird. “Why don’t you? I mean… you don’t exactly look like someone struggling with money.” His eyes flicked to Charles’s clothes before his cheeks flushed pink. “I mean—not that I’m judging—it’s just... the suit kind of gives away that you’re not... well...”

Charles felt the laugh bubble in his chest again. God, this boy . “No, you’re not wrong,” he said, smiling. “Money isn’t the problem. But... my father doesn’t think it’s worth my time. Art isn’t useful, apparently. It’s not dignified enough. So instead... political science. Economics. Diplomacy. All very useful things.”

Emilian wrinkled his nose. “All boring things.”

“Exactly.”

A silence settled, but it was the warm kind, like a blanket pulled over them. Then Emilian leaned forward, eyes glittering. “What kind of art? Painting? Music? Acting? Sculpture? All of it?”

Charles’s heart skipped. The way he asked... like it genuinely mattered. Like it wasn’t some childish fantasy to be dismissed.

“All of it,” he admitted. “But... sculpting. If I had to choose just one.”

“Sculpting...” Emilian repeated, like it was the most fascinating but of information he’d ever heard. Slowly, almost reverently, he reached out and took Charles’s hand, turning it over as if he could read the potential written into the lines of his palm. “I’d love to see what these hands could create.”

For a second, Charles forgot how to breathe. No one... no one had ever looked at him like that, with so much reverence in their eyes. Not because he was a prince. But because he is worth knowing.

“I wish you could,” he said quietly, trying not to let the ache creep into his voice. The unspoken truth hovered between them—they both knew this wasn’t something that would last beyond tonight.

Charles pushed the thought away. “What about you?” he asked, forcing a smile. “What’s your dream?”

“That’s easy,” Emilian grinned. “I want to travel.”

“Travel?” Charles repeated, amused. “Where?”

“Everywhere. Anywhere.” The answer came instantly, like it had been waiting on the tip of his tongue his whole life. “Every city, every country, every little corner of the world.”

Charles laughed, shaking his head. “That sounds...”

“Impossible?” Emilian interrupted, but there was no bitterness—just a flicker of tiredness, like he was used to hearing it. Charles knew that feeling all too well.

“No,” Charles said softly, because he didn't want Emilian to feel how he felt. “That sounds... like a fun adventure.”

Emilian blinked. Then his whole face lit up, smile so bright it could rival the stars. It hit Charles like a punch straight to the chest—this overwhelming urge to kiss him, to hold him, to never let this moment end.

“If you could go anywhere,” Emilian asked, chin resting on his palm, “where would you go first?”

Charles pretended to think, tilting his head, tapping his chin. He knew exactly where he would go. “Hm... the beach.”

“The beach?” Emilian laughed. “A few more steps and we're at the beach. Should we?”

“No, not this one,” Charles said, shaking his head and smiling fondly. He loved the beaches in Monaco – the few ones he was able to visit – but none of them compared. “South of Spain. There’s a beach there I used to visit every year for my birthday.”

“Why that one?”

Charles leaned back, eyes soft. “Because of an old memory. My parents used to take me and my brother. My mom would hold my hand while we jumped the waves. My dad always built this massive sandcastle—every year he tried to make it bigger than the last. After that, we’d get ice cream. I always got strawberry. My brother got coconut. Then we’d walk along the shore at sunset, hunting for shells.”

“That sounds... perfect,” Emilian whispered, like he could see the scene in his head.

“It was,” Charles said, the smile fading slightly. “It was the last place where... where things felt happy. Simple.”

“When was the last time you been?”

“When I was ten.”

Emilian’s smile faltered. “Why?”

Charles hesitated. This wasn’t something he told people. This wasn’t something anyone knew, outside of the palace. It would be a major scandal if it ever got out. But right now, sitting here with Emilian... it felt okay. He felt safe.

“My parents had this huge fight before I turned eleven. My mom wanted a divorce... my father didn’t. Said it would look bad. They’ve stayed married since, but it’s just... for appearances. They haven’t spoken unless there’s someone watching. Haven’t looked at each other in years.”

“That’s... I’m so sorry.” Emilian said quietly.

Charles swallowed. “It got worse. They... made me choose. Pick a side.”

Emilian straightened, eyes wide. “You had to pick between your own parents?”

Charles nodded, fingers twisting in his lap. “I chose my father. Not because I wanted to. I just... didn’t have a choice. My mother took it like I betrayed her. She hasn’t really spoken to me since. Except... when there’s an audience.”

“Even on holidays? Or birthdays?”

“Yeah.” His voice went thin. “Not a word on Christmas. Nothing when it’s just us. On myast birthday she only said something because there were people in the room with us.”

Emilian reached across the table, taking his hand without hesitation. “I’m so sorry. No one should have to go through that.”

There was no pity in his voice. Just kindness. A warmth that softened just a little the edges of the hurt. There was nothing that could be said to fully heal that specific pain – he knew, had heard every possible combination of words from his brother. But this helped.

And Charles couldn’t help himself. He leaned forward, closing the distance, pressing his lips against Emilian’s. Once. Twice. A third time. Like he couldn’t get enough. Like kissing him would help even more. In a way, it did.

When they broke apart, breathless but smiling, Emilian whispered against his lips, “You know, we should go to that beach. For your next birthday.”

Charles felt his breath hitch. Emilian blinked, realizing what he said, and a flicker of something crossed his eyes. 

Because they both knew they wouldn’t be together by Charles’ next birthday. They wouldn’t even be together by tomorrow. Even if in Emilian's eyes, Charles was just a commoner named Percy, he still had a fiancé to go back to.

Still, Charles smiled and nodded anyway. He let Emilian believe the fantasy. Let them both believe it. Just for tonight.

“Yeah,” he whispered, kissing him again. “We should.”

***

They kept talking, drifting from one silly topic to another as easily as breathing. Embarrassing childhood stories, movies they liked, the kind of pets they dreamed of having. Each time Charles laughed, Emilian kissed the sound right off his lips. And each time Emilian smiled, Charles couldn't help but lean in and taste that happiness for himself.

It was easy—dangerously easy—to forget the world outside this little bubble they had created. The cold grass beneath them, the stars slowly dimming above, none of it mattered. It was just them.

“I still think enjoying pineapple on pizza is criminal,” Charles grinned, poking a finger at Emilian’s chest.

Emilian gasped in mock offense. “And I still think that is a sign that you have no taste.”

“I happen to think I have an excellent taste,” Charles countered, brushing his nose against Emilian’s. “Exhibit A: you.”

The way Emilian blushed at that made Charles want to never stop speaking.

They kissed again, soft and lingering. One kiss became two, then three, until Charles lost track of whether it was a conversation or just breathing through each other.

But then—a faint glow on the horizon. A warm pink creeping into the edges of the sky popped their little bubble of happiness.

Charles stiffened. He blinked, pulling back just enough to look over Emilian’s shoulder—and froze.

“Oh no.”

“What?” Emilian asked, startled.

“The sun. Look.” His voice was almost a whisper, but panic was already crawling into his bones. “The sun’s rising. I didn’t—I didn’t realize how late it is—God, I need to get back. My father must be furious.”

Emilian sat up instantly, brushing grass from his trousers. “Right. Of course. Come on.” His voice was calm, but his hands trembled slightly as he reached for Charles’.

They moved quickly but not carelessly. Charles felt the grass damp with dew beneath his shoes. The world felt quieter now, emptier—like even the night itself was retreating, leaving only the two of them behind.

Despite the rush, neither let go of the other’s hand.

When they reached the fence, Charles stared at it with mild dread. In the stillness of midnight, it had seemed like an adventure. Now, with the creeping sunlight looming over them, it looked impossibly tall.

Emilian glanced back at him, offered a quick, reassuring smile. “Same as before.”

He climbed first, quick and practiced. Charles followed—less graceful but determined. His hands slipped once on the cold metal, and Emilian was already there on the other side, arms raised to steady him when he made the jump down.

For a heartbeat, Charles stood there, chest pressed to Emilian’s, both of them breathless from the climb 

But Emilian squeezed his hand. “Come.”

They hurried through the narrow streets, their footsteps muffled against the cobbles. The world was still asleep—shutters drawn, chimneys cold—but the shape of morning was there, rising behind the rooftops, filling the empty spaces with that soft, warm light.

Charles let himself memorize it. The way Emilian’s hair caught the faint glow of dawn, the familiar streets made strange by the hush of early morning, the warmth of Emilian’s palm in his.

Neither spoke during their retreat. Every turn in the road felt like stealing seconds from the clock. Charles knew he should go back immediately, that every minute he was away it was more and more likely that guards would be sent to look for him. Yet, he couldn't help but  want to stall a little bit. To make it last a tad longer.

When the iron gates came into view, Charles felt something to grief in his chest. 

The gardens stood quiet, solemn in the half-light, their shadows thinner now but still offering shelter for a few more precious moments.

They slipped inside the kitchen entrance—back into safety, back into the reality Charles had stepped away from for one impossible, incredible night.

For a moment, they just stood there in the doorway. Neither moved to let go. 

“Thank you,” Charles whispered, voice catching on something heavier than breath. “For… everything. I don’— I don’t know how to thank you.”

Emilian reached up, cupped his cheek with one gentle hand. “There’s no need to.”

His lips were warm, softer than they should be after a night spent in the cold air. The kiss was slower this time. It felt sadly final. A perfect, fragile thing.

When they parted, Emilian let his forehead rest lightly against Charles’. His voice dropped to a whisper, not daring to carry past them. “Last night was enchanting. I hope… I hope we’ll meet again. And that you'll still want me when we do.”

Charles bit the inside of his cheek, hard. He nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

But we won’t. And if we do, it won’t be like this. Not ever again.

He took one trembling step back. And then another. He lingered just a moment longer—trying to memorize Emilian’s face in the soft glow of morning—before he turned.

His footsteps were faster now, echoing down the corridor as he made his way straight to his brother’s rooms.

It was time to awake from this dream.

***

The corridors were quiet, but not silent. Somewhere, too far off to worry about, the staff had started stirring. Distant footsteps, the rattle of pans, the hush of servants beginning the day.

Charles barely registered any of it. He padded down the hallway like a ghost—shoeless, coat crumpled over one arm—until he reached Arthur’s door.

It was unlocked, as always.

He slipped inside and crossed the room in a few quick steps, pulled back the coverlet, and slid into bed beside his brother without a word. The sheets were still warm, Arthur curled beneath them, half-asleep but stirring at the sudden shift.

“Mmf—” Arthur blinked awake, squinting in the dim light. His voice was rough with sleep. “Charles? Are you just getting in now?”

Charles didn’t answer. Not properly. He only nodded, eyes heavy, throat tight.

There was a pause. Arthur pushed himself up onto one elbow, blinking blearily. “Where have you been all night?”

For a moment, Charles didn’t answer. He breathed in slowly—breathed in the clean scent of linen and Arthur’s skin, something achingly familiar and comforting. 

“I was living.” he whispered. His throat tightened around the words. “But that's over now.”

Arthur frowned, turning more fully toward him. His mouth opened—ready to ask more—but something in Charles’ voice, in the way he curled into him, made him hesitate. Arthur sighed instead, pulling his older brother closer.

“Well,” Arthur muttered, voice softer, “you should know, father’s furious with you. Says you humiliated him by not showing up.”

Charles didn’t react. He knew that already. Somewhere, deep inside, he knew he cared about it. But right now he couldn't bring himself to worry.

Arthur hesitated, then added, “But, as luck would have, turns out the Duke actually fell ill last night. The shocking difference in weather made him get a fever. They had to postpone the meeting. It’s been moved to this afternoon. If both of you feel better by then.”

For the first time, Charles stirred—just a little. His eyes opened, staring past Arthur’s shoulder at nothing in particular. “I see.” he murmured, but it was hollow. Mechanical. 

The importance of it should have crashed down on him—meeting the duke, their impending engagement, the future looming over him imposingly. But he felt weirdly numb. Numb to everything except the echo of moonlight and laughter. Of lips against his own. Of hands gentle and sure beneath the stars.

How do you move on with life after experiencing the best of it? 

Arthur settled back, watching him in the dim morning light. “Charlie?”

But Charles only pulled him closer. Desperate to hold onto something. Something real. Something that wouldn’t vanish with the dawn.

Slowly, quietly, Charles let sleep take him. Holding on as tightly as he could to the memory of a night that was never meant to be.

***The silver tray on Charles’s lap still held most of his lunch, untouched. He stabbed absently at a grape with his fork, barely tasting it before leaning back against the mountain of pillows. His eyelids were heavy, his entire body sluggish with exhaustion. He had managed—barely—three hours of sleep before Arthur woke, whispered a frantic warning about the hour, and kicked him back to his own room.

The soft knock on the door was not a surprise, nor was the man who entered without waiting. Lewis never really waited for Charles' permission to enter. “You’re alive,” Lewis observed, shutting the door behind him. His voice was dry but threaded with quiet relief. “I half expected to find a corpse. Arthur said you were vomiting your insides out last night.”

Charles stifled a yawn and sank deeper into his pillows. “Must’ve been the canapés I snuck before the party. My stomach didn’t agree with them.”

Lewis arched a brow, clearly unconvinced, but he hummed and began to wander the room, hands behind his back. His gaze swept over Charles’s discarded clothes, crumpled near the armoire. He bent to retrieve the jacket, his fingers brushing over the grass stains on the cuffs. He lifted one brow without looking up. “Interesting,” he said lightly. “I didn’t realize the palace gardens were serving as your private sickroom now.”

Charles’s heart leapt to his throat. “I—I went to get some air,” he stammered. “I heard that fresh air helps, you know—”

Lewis straightened and turned, pinching a long green blade of grass from the hem of the trousers. “Deep in the gardens, I presume? Or perhaps you decided to roll down a hill in hopes of a faster recovery?”

“I—uh—” Charles’s cheeks flamed. He scrambled for an excuse, any excuse. He came empty handed. “I.. fell?”

Lewis straightened, lips twitching like he was holding back a laugh. “No need to explain, Your Highness. Its better for everyone if I do not know.”

Charles sank further into the pillows, his cheeks warm. Lewis always had that infuriating ability to read between the lines and never press too hard.

“What I do know is that your father will want to see a pale, delicate young man who has just narrowly survived a terrible night. Not…” He waved a hand vaguely toward Charles, “…whatever reckless adventure left your shoes looking like they belong to a stable boy.”

Charles tried to look chastened, but his chest was still warm from the memory of Emilian’s laugh, his lips, the way the grass had felt against his palms.

Lewis studied him for a long moment, the sharp lines of his face softening just slightly. “I don’t know what you were doing,” he said, voice quieter, “but I hope it was worth it.”

Charles couldn't help the smile the bloomed on his lips. He was flooded by the memories of Emilian’s and the warmth of every kiss.

“I also hope you know that it is over now. Actually, it never happened.” Lewis said and Charles felt like a bucket of cold water was spilled over his head. “You haven’t forgotten your duty, I trust?”

Charles nodded, swallowing past the tightness in his throat. “I remember.”

Lewis moved toward the door but paused before leaving. “Good. Then wash yourself, get dressed and stop smiling so much. Try to at least pretend you were sick. And, please, eat something. People put hard work on that dish you're wasting.”

The door closed softly behind him.

Charles lay back, eyes tracing the ceiling. He hated to admit, but Lewis was right. The night, amazing as it was, it was over. Dawn broke and so did reality. It was time to go back from fantasyland.

***

The heavy oak doors of the King’s office closed behind Charles with a soft click that sounded far louder in his ears than it should. He used to be intimidated by these huge, massive doors as a kid. If he was being honest, he still was, but for different reasons.

The room smelled faintly of leather, ink and polished wood. His father sat behind the vast desk, quill poised over a document, but his eyes were fixed on Charles the moment he entered.

“Charles.” The single word was cold, heavy with reproach.

Charles bowed his head. “Father.”

His father leaned back in his chair, clasping his hands over his chest. Physically, he wasn't a very intimidating man. He wasn't tall like Arthur or had an intimidating beauty like Charles did — no, those were all traits they inherited from their mother. Yet, there was something deeply intimidating about the way his father conducted himself. It was something that Charles couldn't quite put his finger on. Something he aimed to be one day.

“Do you have any idea how deeply y

ou embarrassed me last night?” His father's voice was controlled, almost quiet, which was somehow worse than yelling. “You— the crown prince of this kingdom—disappeared from your own ball. Our guests noticed. The court noticed. And the Duke’s attendants…” His jaw tightened. “They were not impressed.”

“I…” Charles hesitated, eyes on the intricate pattern of the carpet. “I wasn’t feeling well.”

“So I’ve heard,” his father said flatly. “Arthur insists you were… vomiting.” His tone made the word sound childish and offensive all at once. “Be grateful that the Duke’s own constitution is as fragile as yours. Had he been present to see your… disappearance, we would be in a much uglier position today.” The way his father said the word ‘ we ’ made very clear to Charles that he actually meant ‘ you’.

Charles stayed silent, his head still bowed. He could feel the weight of his father's disappointment pressing down on him like a physical force, the familiar ache settling in his chest. He had spent his whole life trying not to be a disappointment. Once again, he failed.

He thought of the cool grass beneath his fingers, the soft weight of Emilian’s hand in his own, the taste of a kiss that felt like freedom. If this was the cost of that single, perfect night, he would pay it a thousand times.

“You will not make a habit of this,” the King continued, his voice like the crack of a whip. “You will not undermine this alliance, or me, or the crown. You have one duty, Charles. One. To secure the future of this kingdom. Every day you stray from that path, you make yourself less of a prince and more of a liability.”

Charles’s fingers curled at his sides. He hated being a disappointment, hated the heaviness of guilt pressing against his ribs—but he couldn’t regret what he had done. Not this time.

“Lift your head,” his father snapped.

The King rose abruptly, circling the desk until he stood in front of Charles. “Lift your head.”

Charles obeyed, and his father’s eyes – as green as his were – scanned him critically.

“Square your shoulders. A crown prince does not slouch in shame. He does not sulk like a child. He presents his best face to the world, always. When the Duke arrives, he will see dignity and confidence. A man worthy of the throne. Understood?”

“Yes, Father,” Charles repeated. It was an easy script to follow, at least. ‘ yes, father's and behave. Easy.

A long moment of silence passed as the King studied him, as if glaring at Charles would sudd make him the best king that there ever was. At last, he gave a short nod.

“Good. The Duke will be here shortly. You will greet him with all the respect and charm expected of a crown prince. And for heaven’s sake…” His voice sharpened like the crack of a whip. “Do not disappoint me again.”

Charles inclined his head, standing tall the way his father wanted, every inch the obedient son he was born – and shaped – to be.

Charles couldn’t stop yawning, no matter how many times he tried to swallow it back. His jaw ached from the effort. His father hadn’t commented yet, but Charles knew it was only a matter of time before the sharp rebuke came— a crown prince does not yawn like a bored child .

But he was bored. And exhausted.

The night still clung to him like a second skin, soft and luminous in his memory. The palace felt smaller today, darker, as though the walls were pressing in on him for daring to leave, for daring to taste freedom. He had touched a life that wasn’t his and now the marble and velvet felt wrong, like the glass cage Emilian accused him to live in.

He kept thinking of Emilian when he shouldn’t. He wondered what he was doing at that very moment. Was he unpacking the Duke’s luggage? Walking in the gardens like nothing had happened? Would they cross paths again—would they be able to look at each other again?

They couldn’t . Charles knew it, even if it made his heart twist.

Emilian was part of the Duke’s entourage. That meant he was the Duke's servant. Charles was the heir to the throne, engaged to the man who owned Emilian’s loyalty. No one could ever know that, for a single night, Charles had stopped being the crown prince and become someone else—someone who laughed freely, who ran through darkened streets, who tasted joy and starlight on another boy’s lips. If anyone ever found out, Emilian would pay the highest price.

So Charles made his choice.

He would forget. Not completely—he couldn’t forget, not the fair, the dancing, the rush of the wind as they ran side by side. He would treasure Emilian’s smile and the memory of his first kiss like a secret jewel locked deep inside his chest. But he would let go of the dangerous parts: the dizzying thrill, the heartbeat that had roared in his ears when he thought he could be anyone he wanted. That night belonged to Percy, the boy he could never be again.

He was Charles Marc Hervé Perceval Leclerc, heir to the throne. Future king.

And he would forget Emilian.

So when Lewis knocked and murmured through the heavy door that the Duke and his father had arrived, Charles lifted his chin, rolled his shoulders back, and forced the yawn back down. He let the crown prince slide over him like armor.

The office door opened, and the first to enter was His Royal Highness, Prince Jos Verstappen.

Charles blinked at him, struck by how… forgettable he was. Slicked dark-blond hair, pale skin, cold blue eyes—he could have been any man plucked from any court. The kind of face that might belong to a merchant or a minor lord, the kind you passed on the street and forgot immediately. He wore a stiff, dark suit, proper enough to be inoffensive, and yet entirely without imagination.

Charles felt, absurdly, as if he knew him somehow. Perhaps because he seemed to be everyone and no one at once.

What was remarkable was his lack of manners.

Tradition dictated that a visiting prince greeted the king with a kiss to the hand or at least a bow. Jos did neither. He only inclined his head the barest fraction, spine ramrod straight, face as impassive as stone.

“Your Majesty. Your Highness, my undying pleasure to meet you both.” he said, voice low and flat. If this was pleasure , Charles thought, he’d hate to hear his displeasure .

Rude , Charles noted silently, though he bent his head politely all the same. “Your Highness. A pleasure.”

Jos’s cold eyes swept over him, up and down, a measured, almost calculating frown creasing his brow. Charles fought the instinct to fidget under the scrutiny. It occurred to him that perhaps he wasn’t the only one who wanted nothing to do with this union.

“So, where is the groom?” Charles’s father broke in with an airy warmth that Charles knew was a façade. He was all smiles and open gestures now, as if the previous night hadn’t ended in rage. “I hope he hasn’t run away. I would hate to have to execute him before the wedding.”

He chuckled at his own joke. Charles didn’t.

His eyes drifted toward the empty doorway. No Duke. Late.

Rude father, rude son , he thought, schooling his face into the bland mask of a dutiful prince. Inside, the memory of last night pulsed like a secret heartbeat.

“Never, Your Majesty. My boy is very excited for this union.”

Prince Jos’s voice carried a smooth confidence that made Charles uneasy. There was a faint glint in his pale blue eyes, sharp and assessing, the kind that made Charles feel like a chess piece already set on the board. “I’m not sure where he is—he was right behind—”

Before the man could finish, Lewis cleared his throat by the door.

“His Grace, Duke Verstappen.”

The doors opened.

Charles straightened automatically, his hands clasped in front of him, heart steady, face neutral. He had told himself a hundred times that it didn’t matter what the Duke looked like or who he was. He hadn’t let himself imagine their wedding day, their life, or even the way the Duke might speak his name. Dreams like that led to disappointment, and Charles had enough disappointment for a lifetime.

If he expected anything at all, it was someone like the Duke’s father: forgettable, cold, and distant. Perhaps a younger, healthier copy of him. A man as gray and dull as the political agreement they represented. Or perhaps, in a whimsical corner of his mind, the exact opposite—a dashing young man, gentle and noble, the sort of fairy tale prince Arthur still believed in.

He did not expect Emilian.

The man who stepped through the doors in dark blue velvet might as well have walked out of one of Charles’ dreams. His hair was swept neatly back, his posture regal, his expression calm in the way only someone with power could carry. For one foolish, giddy heartbeat, Charles thought the Duke had brought his attendant along—because of course Emilian would be someone important to the Duke. He thought maybe Emilian had been more than just a servant, maybe he was a trusted advisor. Someone important enough to attend a royal meeting.

Whatever it was, Charles wasn’t ready to see Emilian so soon. He thought he had time to forget about the night before, to learn how to pretend like it meant nothing to him. And yet here he was, in front of him, looking as handsome as ever.

He took a deep breath to collect himself. He was about to meet his fiancé, he couldn’t be thinking about Emilian.

It was after he took his time to recompose himself, though, that Charles noticed the absence of said fiancé. The doors behind Emilian were firmly closed as he was walking towards them.

He wondered what was happening. Was the Duke bailing out of the marriage? Did he send Emilian here instead of him to relay the message that he was breaking the engagement off? Did Emilian know that the color of that suit complimented his eyes beautifully? And that it made Charles’s hand itch to pull the lapels of said suit and pull him to a kiss? He must have known.

“Ah, my son." The Duke’s father said, almost sighing in relief– like he himself wasn’t sure that the Duke was coming. 

And then it hit him: He’s pretending to be the Duke.

It made a terrible kind of sense. Maybe the Duke had agreed to it as a kindness to his advisor—no, to his friend. Perhaps Emilian had told him about the night before, about Charles sneaking out, and the Duke had helped orchestrate this meeting. Maybe the Duke himself didn't wish to marry Charles and this was the easiest solution, one that didn't bring war. Maybe… maybe Emilian was here to marry him in the Duke’s place.

For a split second, Charles’s heart swelled with reckless, stupid hope.

And then the fear hit harder. If his father or Queen Johanna discovered such deception, it wouldn’t just be a scandal—it would be a war. And Emilian would bear the punishment. Sweet, brave, unpredictable Emilian. Charles wanted to tell him to run before anyone noticed.

Instead, he could only stand frozen as Emilian approached with perfect grace. He bowed at the flawless ninety-degree angle drilled into royal children from the cradle.

“Your Majesty,” he said smoothly, kissing the King’s hand with the brief, proper touch of etiquette.

Then he turned to Charles.

“Your Highness.” His lips lingered just a fraction longer on Charles’s hand. Not long enough to be improper, but long enough to make a shiver crawl up his spine. “Enchanted to meet you.”

Charles’s throat was too dry to speak.

“Likewise, Your Grace." Charles’s father answered for him, actually looking happy and warm this time, now that he knew that he could assure that the Duke wasn’t running away from Charles. If only he knew he was being deceived. “It’s been too long, Max. Seems that the British air did you well, though, you look as handsome as ever." He chuckled.

And that was when it dawned on him.

His father had met the Duke before. He knew exactly what he looked like. And he wasn’t yelling, wasn’t demanding answers, wasn’t calling for guards to drag anyone away for treason.

That meant—

Oh

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Emilian—Max—said, his chuckle warm and smooth, as if he and Charles’s father were old acquaintances sharing a private joke. “You’re too kind.”

The words snapped the last thread of Charles’s composure.

Charles’s world tilted. His leg twitched, hitting the coffee table and sending the teacups rattling. One nearly toppled over, tea sloshing across the polished wood. He jerked back instinctively and landed with a graceless thump on the sofa behind him.

“P–pardon me,” he spluttered, mortified, heat racing to his face.

Questions tumbled over each other in his head. Why hadn’t Emilian told him? Had he known from the start who Charles was? Had he recognized his betrothed sneaking through the fair like a reckless peasant boy? Or had had found out just now, like Charles did?

Charles’s gaze darted to him, searching desperately for some crack in his composure, some hint that he was as flustered and dizzy as Charles felt—but no. Max looked perfectly calm, perfectly at ease, like he belonged in that room in a way Charles never quite had.

Then Max turned to him and smiled.

It was the same smile he’d worn the night before—bright, unguarded, warm enough to melt every ounce of Charles’s worries. For the first time, he let himself believe it: this wasn’t a prank or a trick. Max knew who he was. Max knew they were betrothed. And somehow, impossibly, that didn’t make last night disappear.

“I think we should take this as a sign to sit,” Max said, a hint of laughter in his voice.

Charles swallowed and nodded, managing to push himself upright. “Yes… yes, I think we should. Your Grace.”

He didn’t smile back—he was still too stunned—but somewhere deep in his chest, something felt lighter than it had in years.

Whatever this was, whatever it became, he wouldn’t have to force himself to forget after all.

*** 

Charles sat perfectly straight, hands folded over his lap, and nodded politely at every word exchanged around the tea table. He even murmured a thoughtful “hm” now and again, though he could not have repeated a single point about trade routes or military escorts if his life depended on it.

All his focus was across the table.

Max—Emilian—Duke Verstappen—was right there, listening with a calm, polite interest that made him seem as if he was born to these meetings. And maybe he was. Charles tried very hard not to stare at the line of his jaw, at how the sunlight from the tall windows touched the edge of his golden hair. He tried not to imagine grabbing his hand under the table and sneaking him away. He tried not to imagine kissing him again.

He failed spectacularly.

Finally, the talk drifted to a pause as cakes were offered and tea refilled, and Charles saw his chance. He lifted his chin, trying to appear calm and princely even as his heart tripped in his chest.

“Father, Your Highness,” he said softly, “would it be possible for me to… speak with Duke Verstapp in private? Perhaps show His Grace our gardens? I would like the chance to become more… accustomed to him.”

His father’s face lit up like he had just personally negotiated the end of all wars. Charles had been dreading this engagement for months and now he was playing along. It was marvelous to him. “Of course! You two should get acquainted. Go, go. We shall meet again for dinner.”

Charles rose smoothly, bowing in all the right ways, and waited for Max to do the same. He told himself to walk with dignity, to glide like a prince should. He told himself he would not grab the Duke like a child running off with a stolen treasure.

He lasted all of three steps.

His fingers found the crook of Max’s arm, fitting there perfectly, just like last night. He didn’t run—he was a prince, after all—but he did allow himself to hold on just a little tighter than protocol demanded.

“Charles—” Max started, voice low and careful the moment they were past the threshold.

“Not here,” Charles cut in, his own voice barely above a whisper. He didn’t even look at him, eyes scanning the hallway. “Too many ears.”

Only when he saw Max glance around, catching sight of guards and servants stationed in the hallways, did Charles feel his grip ease a fraction. Max understood. He had grown up in court too. He knew that every corridor had its own pair of eyes, and every careless word became a story before sunset.

And this story was one that could ruin them both.

So Charles held his tongue, leading Max through the long, gleaming halls of the palace. He could sense Max was a little lost, his steps tentative as they passed from one corridor to the next, but Charles didn’t stop until they slipped through the glass doors and out into the gardens.

The moment the sun hit their faces and the scent of grass and flowers replaced the polished cold of the palace, Charles felt a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding escape his chest.

And Max… Max changed. His pace became surer, like he knew exactly where they were now, exactly where he wanted to go. He brushed his hand lightly over Charles’s arm, guiding him with quiet confidence. He was Emilian once again. 

When they rounded the hedge and the old oak trees came into view, Charles saw them: the two wooden swings swaying gently in the breeze.

He couldn’t help it—his lips curved into a smile.

“So,” Charles said, finally letting go of Max’s arm as he stepped toward the wooden swing. He sat down and folded his hands neatly over his lap, looking up at the Duke with one brow raised. “I believe you have some explaining to do, Your Grace .”

Max at least had the decency to look ashamed. He hovered for a second, then walked around the swing and gave Charles a small push. It was light—barely enough to move him—but it felt oddly intimate.

“I am sorry,” Max said, almost in a murmur. “Are you mad?”

“I’m not sure yet.”

That seemed to be enough of an answer. Max gave the swing another push, a little firmer this time. Still not enough to lift Charles off the ground in that weightless way that he remembered from the night before, but enough to send a gentle sway into motion.

“Did you know all along?” Charles asked, watching the garden in front of him as it moved in and out of view.

“Not at first,” Max admitted. “I recognized your face, kind of. It was familiar, but I couldn’t place it. And then I got lost trying to find the bathroom.” He huffed a small laugh. “There’s a huge portrait of your family in one of the halls. You’re also on the money, which, honestly, is a bit excessive.”

Charles grimaced. 

There was a beat of quiet before Charles asked, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

This time, Max didn’t answer right away. Instead, he stepped forward, reached for the ropes, and twisted them gently so Charles turned toward him.

“I was going to,” Max said, and when Charles looked into his eyes, he could see it was the truth. “But then you introduced yourself as Percy, and I thought maybe you knew who I was, and it was all some sort of joke I didn't understand. But you you didn't know who I was. And I…” He broke off for a second, his gaze lowering. “I wanted to know who you really were. Not his Royal Highness. Just you.” He looked up again. “And, maybe, just for one night, I didn't want to be the Duke.”

Charles stared at him for a long moment. He understood that feeling a little too well.

“That was exactly why I didn’t tell you who I was,” he admitted. “I was tired of being the crown Prince. I just wanted to be… someone else. Just for a while.” He shrugged. “I was surprised you didn’t recognize me, so I ran with it. And I’m not really mad, not for that. If anything…” He smiled a little. “I’m grateful. You let me be a normal boy for one night. I’d never done that before. Never got to walk the streets of my own kingdom, or sneak out to a fair, or hold hands with someone I liked on a date.”

Max’s cheeks pinked slightly at the word liked , and Charles found it unfairly endearing.

“It was the best night of my life,” Charles said.

Max let out a breath and relaxed visibly, shoulders sagging in relief. “Mine too. I don’t think I’ve ever felt more alive than when I was dancing with you under the stars.”

That was definitely unfair.

Charles looked away, cheeks burning. “Before I found out who you were, I kept trying to convince myself to forget about it all. That it was wrong, that I couldn’t risk you being punished. That it didn’t matter how I felt, it wasn’t going to happen again.”

He let go of the rope with one hand and slowly reached for Max’s. “But now I don’t have to pretend, do I?”

“Not if I have any say on the matter.”

Max slid his hand into Charles’s, warm and steady.

“I’m really glad you lied to me,” Charles said, smiling fondly.

Max frowned, tilting his head. “I didn’t lie to you. Not once. Everything I said last night, even ridiculous poetic nonsense…” He gave Charles’s hand a gentle squeeze. “I meant every word.”

Charles chuckled softly, shaking his head.

“I’m not saying you lied about your feelings, silly,” he clarified, the corners of his mouth tugging upward. “I meant about who you were—your name.” He tilted his head slightly, teasing. “By the way, I think I like Max more than Emilian. Fits you better.”

“Oh, that?” Max’s smile bloomed slow and warm. “I didn’t lie about that. My name is Emilian. I’m Max Emilian Verstappen. Pleased to meet you.”

Charles rolled his eyes, unable to keep from smiling. “Pleasure to meet you, Max. I’m Charles.”

Max leaned in a fraction, his voice soft as he teased, “ Just Charles?”

“Yes,” Charles said, quieter now, his throat tight with words he couldn’t quite voice. Just Charles. Not the prince. Just yours. It was harder to admit things like that under the bright sky, without the night to hide his vulnerability.

“Just Charles,” Max echoed. His gaze softened, but a flicker of hesitation lingered in his eyes. “For now?” he asked, and the words were light, but the question beneath them wasn’t. Only for today? Or tomorrow, too? Will you let me keep you when the sun rises again? And the day after that?

Charles’s breath caught, and his chest ached with something almost too big to hold. “For as long as you want me.”

Whatever tension remained in Max’s frame melted. He let out a soft, relieved laugh and drew Charles against him, arms curling easily around his waist. Charles melted into it without hesitation, fitting there as if he’d been waiting for this embrace his entire life.

“I was so afraid you’d be angry,” Max admitted against his hair. His voice was low, rough with honesty. “I thought you’d… hate me for letting you believe I was someone else. That you’d tell me it meant nothing, that we’d marry for duty and that would be that. I thought last night would be the first and last time I ever got to hold you like this.”

The ache in Charles’s chest was immediate. While he had spent the morning mourning the thought of never seeing Emilian again, Max had been mourning the possibility that Charles would despise him.

“Last night was the best night of my life,” Charles whispered, grateful that Max’s shoulder was there to hide his blush, his trembling lips. He could feel the steady beat of Max’s heart beneath his ear. “I always knew I wouldn’t marry for love.”

He felt Max stiffen slightly at that, and he pulled back enough to meet his eyes—those impossibly blue eyes, prettier than the Monaco seas.

“But meeting you last night,” Charles continued, voice barely above a whisper, “it made me hope for the future. I think… no, I know… if we marry, I’ll end up loving you until the day I die.”

Max swallowed hard, his own eyes a little glassy. “Charles…” he breathed, before leaning in. The kiss was soft, almost reverent, and it tasted of everything Charles had ever wanted but never thought he could have.

“Last night was everything I ever wanted,” Max murmured against his lips. “But I promise you, I’ll make every night better than the last.”

Wasn't that a bold promise?

Charles laughed, breathless, pressing a quick kiss to the little mole he adored. “And how will you do that, Your Grace? What adventures will you take me on next?”

“Well,” Max hummed, mock-considering as he held him close, “we can start by seeing those sculptures you promised. Then horseback riding. Then a picnic in the gardens while you tell me all about your wild childhood adventures. And maybe later we can sneak food from the kitchens again…”

Charles couldn’t hide his grin if he tried. “Maybe we spar a little?”

“Or,” Max arched an eyebrow, teasing, “maybe we leave the date planning to me. You seem to be a terrible planner, Your Highness.”

“Oh, shut up. I’ll have you know I can plan perfectly acceptable dates.” Charles said, swatting at his shoulder with no real force.

“I look forward to seeing it, then,” Max smirked, pulling him back in, closer this time, until there was no space left to steal. “But the most important part of every adventure,  is loving you a little more than I did the night before.”

Charles tried not to blush. He failed. “Won’t that be… difficult?” It was a sincere question. He’d never loved anyone before, and he knew love was work, not just pretty words under the stars. Maybe Max shouldn’t promise things he couldn’t keep.

Max, though, only shook his head and kissed the tip of Charles’s nose.

“I think loving you will be the easiest thing I ever do.”